This Is High School, Love!
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: A Sherlock/Mean Girls crossover, in which John Watson has recently arrived from Afghanistan and is being admitted to Westhaven High at the age of 16 after being homeschooled for all of his life. Upon arriving he befriends Mycroft and Greg, and slowly finds himself falling for Sherlock Holmes and trying his best not to ruin his own life in the company of the Plastics.
1. First day

**John meets Greg and Mycroft and he's briefed about the Plastics.**

* * *

**Originally, I intended to make Greg Damian and Mycroft Janis. But now they're sort of... a fusion of each other. Sometimes, Janis' dialogues will be taken up by Greg and sometimes by Mycroft.**

**But for the most part, Mycroft is Janis.**

**And Jim screwed up Greg's life. Because Mycroft is virtually untouchable.**

**Also, I remembered that Mycroft's supposed to be clever so I kicked Kevin Gnapnoor (did I get the surname right?) out of the scene.**

* * *

"You okay, Johnny boy?"

"Shut up, Harry!" John snapped at his big sister, who was beginning in some uni that John was glad not to hear anymore about. He had thought that Harry would stay with him in his house through Secondary school (like the good big sister she pretended to be) which she had described in agonising and terrifying detail, but no, she had to go to uni! Well, she could go to hell for all he cared, "You don't have to keep saying that-"

"Alright, stop it now you two," their mother piped in, "John, we understand if you're feeling a little bit nervous-"

"I'm not nervous!" John protested with an obvious lie, "I'm 16, I'm not even supposed to be a minor."

"My baby brother's going to school! Many a tear shed in joy!" Harry squealed.

"Harry," he growled, "stop it!"

"Honey," his dad spoke to his mum, "Have you given John his lunch?" But Harry had to reply, just for the sake of replying, "Yeah, of course," and why did Harry have to reply to everything and since when, "I wouldn't want my _baby brother_ starving during his first day at school!"

"John, you remember your phone number? I've written it down in your almanac, just in case."

"Yeah, I've got it," he replied, thankful that Harry decided to stay out of at least one question, "Thanks dad."

The Watson family car parked outside the school building. John looked at the school building, too long for his mother to rouse him from his deep thoughts and nervousness, "You planning on getting out today, dear?"

John had to admit. He was kinda nervous. "Yeah, sorry," he ducked and slipped out of the car. Only his dad got out. Perhaps he had told his mum and Harry to stay inside. Well , he was thankful for that, "Now John," he looked down at his son with the most tender eyes, too tender for an ex-Lieutenant Commander who had served in Afghanistan, "You don't have to feel very nervous about school, it's a very regular thing. You make friends, just as you did back there, you fight," said he with a wink, "and then you make amends as you go along, alright?"

John nodded solemnly. His father's smile served to calm him down a bit. Although he was nervous, he really wasn't keen on letting that show on his face. He really did not want his parents to worry throughout the day.

"Don't get into trouble or fights on the first day itself, save 'em up for later, be nice to everyone and your teachers. You'll need their recommendations for uni, right?"

Nod nod.

"Don't lose your phone, and don't switch it off either. Keep it on silent. I won't text, for sure, but I can't promise about your mum. She's already worried sick... but don't let that get to you."

Nod nod. He was 16, and it was just school, with other kids his age. Much less dangerous than Afghanistan and the fear of bombings anytime. He was safe, no need to be nervous. He was a soldier, like his father, and he could deal with everything.

But would other kids like him? Would they include him? And would they make fun of his sexuality, if that somehow happened to come out? Such thoughts troubled John a little.

"Reach all your classes in time," his father advised him, "and if people tell you that you're a home-schooled jungle freak, don't listen to them."

John managed a terse laugh at that. That really _was_ harsh, and just the inspiration he needed. His father was always like that.

"Okay. You ready?"

He donned a fake smile, "Think so."

His dad quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I'm okay," smile replaced with laughter, "Fantastic." And that eyebrow kept going higher and higher.

"Sorry," he sobered up, "I'll be careful."

His dad patted his shoulder, and he started walking away from his parents and his sister and towards Westhaven High. Nice building, he mused. John walked towards the entrance, watching the girls and the boys enter the school building. He turned back to see his mum waving furiously at him, and Harry sniggering at him. His mum gave her a tight and well-deserved slap on her back.

"I'll miss you, Johnny boy," she called out loud enough for everyone to hear, "Do write to your dear old sister, won't you? And text me at least once a week!"

John gritted his teeth furiously as he rushed away into the building. People were starting to notice him. He hated being so short. But right now, it was working to his advantage. John looked at different groups sitting outside in the school grounds, already split into cliques on the first day itself.

"Hi!" He waved nervously to some of them. They simply stared at him weirdly. John kept walking, feeling incredibly self-conscious even though no one was looking at him. He passed a bunch of people getting high behind the tree, and a girl stuffing two large egg sandwiches into her mouth. He stared at her, not noticing as he almost crashed with another boy, knocking him out for a few seconds. Short height... not really to his advantage.

When he recovered himself, he extended a hand out to the boy, "Hi! I'm a new student here. My name's John Watson."

"Talk to me again, and I'll kick your ass," was the grumpy reply. John looked around helplessly.He really should have said sorry instead. Thankfully, he found the form class within five minutes, and proceeded to take a seat when a jolly voice arrested him, "Oh no. No, no!"

He spun around to see a robust and handsome guy with a healthy tan and a few premature greys in his hair, "You really don't want to sit in there."

John looked a little puzzled. Kids in school had reserved places for themselves? "Why not?"

"Umm... because Sally Donovan's new boyfriend's going to sit there?" offered a tall boy, sitting behind the first one. His hair was of a ginger shade, and he was deadpanned, disconcertingly so. John looked to his right to see a tall, dark-haired, well-built guy come up and kiss a dark-skinned girl with curly hair.

Well, if face-sucking classified as kissing. "Right, thanks," said John, feeling a little grossed at the PDA.

"No problem."

He nodded gratefully and moved to another bench, a front row seat at which the taller one interrupted again, "Not there either."

"Why?"

"Do you want to carry attendance sheets to the office everyday?"

John shook his head and took a seat in at the back of the class as soon as those two boys lost interest in him. He checked his schedule. He had biology with Ms. Hooper and then Math. That's all he needed to know for the time being.

"Hey everyone," surely that was Ms. Hooper. Nervous, pretty, not exactly the most organized of teachers by the looks of it, "Sorry, I'm late, how was your sum-" She stopped as a plump man came into the classroom, only to be met by the disinterested gaze of all the students except for that of John's.

"Ms. Hooper," he started pleasantly, "Is everything alright in here?"

"Yeah," she gave a good-natured nervous laugh," Top-notch."

"Good."

"Fantastic." All the other students watched the two of them weirdly. John took this as an opportunity to ask who the man was.

"That's Mr. Stamford, principal," said the boy sitting in the bench in the row next to his, "What are you, new here?"

"Yup."

"Cool."

John quirked his eyebrows at that. However was that cool?

He turned his attention back to the two teachers.

"So... how was your summer?"

"Great... I mean- I... not so great."

"Anything you'd like to share?"

"Toby died."

"Oh my god!" Stamford caught her hands and patted her sympathetically on her back.

"Who's Toby?" John asked a girl sitting next to him.

"Ms. Hooper's cat. She was head over heels for him. Are you new here?"

John nodded. The girl did not say anything to him so he focussed his attention back to the love-dance in front of him.

"Anytime you feel... like, you know, having a chat... you can just drop by."

"Yes," she composed herself, and cleared her throat, as if asking him to get on with it.

"Right, ahem- well, I just wanted to let everybody know that we have a new student joining us. He just moved here all the way from Afghanistan." He looked around, as if trying to locate that student, and then smiled sweetly to Sally Donovan's boyfriend, "Welcome!"

Everyone craned their necks to look at Sally's new and excessively tanned boyfriend, including Sally herself, as if she didn't know that her boyfriend came from Afghanistan. There was a beat for a moment after which he roused himself from oblivion, "Don't look at me! I'm from Edinburgh!"

Mr. Stamford tried to hide his embarrassment, "Great... erm... His name's John Hamish Watson. Where are you, John?"

"Over here," he sort of waved, smiling nicely at his two teachers. Ms. Hooper beamed at him in a friendly welcome smile, and John felt included automatically. but nobody else graced him with even a look, seeing that John was pretty average with nothing out-of-the-ordinary about him. John's smile dropped, he already felt like his first day in secondary school was a disaster, but he did notice that the shorter of the two boys who had talked to him earlier was now silently laughing at his unnecessary excitement. He would have understood, had he known that this was the first time John had been attending school.

Or maybe he was just laughing at 'Hamish', yeah that was more probable... 'Damn, mum!' he thought, 'Why John HAMISH Watson?'

"Well, welcome John," said Ms. Hooper as he turned back to her. She decided to end the trance with a small cough, "And thank you Mr. Stamford."

"Well, thank you too. And... if ever you want... if you need anything or if you wanna talk to somebody..."

"Yeah maybe some other time."

"Okay. Good day everyone," Mr. Stamford left the class and Ms. Hooper heaved a sigh of relief, "Okay! Mycroft," she didn't look up even for once as she went through a file flooding with papers, "could you please take the attendance? I need to do one or two things..."

* * *

When the period ended, the two boys from earlier cornered him outside the room.

"That's why I thought My, "said the shorter one, "I had never seen _this_ one before."

"Really?" The boy called 'My' quipped, "John _Hamish _Watson?"

John frowned and tried his best placating smile, "Look guys, I really appreciate you talking to me but I have to get to my next class. It starts in two minutes."

"Relax," said the 'My' guy. John was relieved to hear that someone's name was as pathetic as 'Hamish' was. And then he cowered at the fact that Hamish was his father's name.

"No one gets to Biology in time," 'My' continued, "Ms. Hooper's always late. This is Greg," he continued in an undertone, "He's too gay to function."

"What?" John spluttered as Greg flashed a set of white teeth. _How in the name of all that is holy was he okay with that?_

"Oh, poor guy," Greg chuckled, "Don't worry. I'll have him killed if it gets out. And same goes to you too."

John smiled at that, liking the fact that he already was getting included.

"And I'm Mycroft," said he, shaking his hand formally.

"The two most awesome people you'll ever meet!" Greg quipped.

"Nice to meet you, erm - do you know where this classroom is?"

Greg looked down at John's schedule and nodded, "Yeah, I'm taking some bio. My has gotta go to... "

"Physics," said Mycroft, checking his schedule, "See you later."

"Bye."

"Bye Mycroft."

* * *

Greg was okay, and certainly not too gay to function, according to John anyway. He was also into rugby and soccer, and he consistently argued with John over the fact the soccer was the greatest sport in the world. John didn't really mind him, in fact he was glad and moreover, thankful that he wasn't alone in that huge surreal, stressful place.

It seemed that the only classes Greg did not share with him were Chemistry and French. And as for Mycroft, he did not share any classes with Greg at all. So, during French, when John looked at the alien room timidly, Mycroft was there for company. He went to him at once, smiling at his new friend.

"Hello," said he jovially, peering from the top of his textbook, "How was your day till now?"

"Okay. A little stressful." He went and sat next to him.

"So... what happened? Why d'you move here from Afghanistan?"

"Dad got retired. My sister had to go to a uni, get some degree."

Mycroft gave him an acknowledging nod, gulping down some bottled water, "I've heard that it's very violent in there. Even schools are, you know..."

"Yeah," John smiled, "It is. That's why I was homeschooled."

Mycroft choked on the water he was gulping down his throat, "What? You've never been to school before?"

"No. My mum taught me most of the stuff."

"Wow, you are one lucky person!"

John raised his eyebrows, "Really? Are schools that bad?"

Mycroft only gave him a deadpan smile, "Surely you mean Secondary-school world? You'll see." John really did not like the tone of his words.

* * *

When the class ended, Mycroft led him outside and waited for Greg to come out of the German class. John checked his schedule again. Health class. Without John's knowledge, Mycroft pointed to it and nudged his best friend, "Yeah, don't worry John. We'll get you there."

"Yeah, "Greg gave him a wide smile, "Come on, or we'll be late."

"And you don't want to be late for Health class!" Mycroft spoke ominously, "Coach Gregson will play hell."

They successfully made their way through the crowd, and out in the school grounds.

"Where's this room, guys?"

"Oh don't worry. Yeah, just right here." Mycroft promptly sat down on the grass. Well on his handkerchief actually, under the comfortable shade of a tree. He pulled John down on the well-kept grass and aimed a kick in Greg's direction.

"Yeah, okay I'm sitting. Don't be an asshole, My."

"Is it okay?" John looked a little scared. His mum and dad had told him to reach all his classes in time or else he would be punished, "I mean, won't we get into some sort of trouble for this?"

"Yeah," Mycroft nodded nonchalantly, taking out a university-level calculus textbook, "if you show up late."

"But if you just don't show up at all," said Greg, fishing into his bag for something, "they'll never even notice."

"Moreover, we're friends, John. Why would _we _get _you _into trouble?"

Mycroft looked so sincere that John relented.

"In case you're wondering what happens in Health class," Greg started, biting into a chocolate bar and giving Mycroft the biggest piece, leaving two small bites for John and himself, "They ask you to carry mosquito repellents with yourselves, or else you'll get dengue," he tried a poor imitation of a poltergeist trying to scare off kids, "and die."

"Or 'D-A-N-G-O-O, as Coach Gregson spells it. Always the same thing every time," Mycroft shook his head, his diet forgotten. John nodded, processing the information. Health class sounded mundane.

"And it's the sort of class you learn not to pay any attention to, so there's no point in attending... Anyway, why are you reading uni - level calc book, My?" said Greg, pointing to the textbook.

"Hell bent on passing IMO this year as well," said Mycroft absentmindedly, turning the pages carefully as if they were lost treasures, "it'll be second year in a row if I get that medal again. Not that they expect calculus, but the answer comes to me easier..."

Greg gave John a look that told him to zone out for sometime if he didn't understand what Mycroft was saying.

Greg and Mycroft complemented each other. They were complete opposites of each other, and yet they were the best of friends. Greg loved everything American, almost like a wannabe, while Mycroft was completely English, with proper hair and button-down tucked-in shirt. Greg was sweet and sort of tame, trying his best to appear cool whereas Mycroft appeared bold and dominating, while trying his best to be polite. SO much that when Greg said something that was outrageous by his standards, Mycroft would look at him with surprise as if he had never known him, maybe pass one or two _polite_ comments too...

"Okay," said Greg in infectious excitement, and yet Mycroft was having none of it, "I'm going to mentor you... what else is important that I can tell you about? Oh yeah, the cafeteria is terrible, you're gonna have to buy your lunch at the school store. I recommend white cheddar cheezits."

"No worries," said John brightly, "My mum gave me my lunch."

Greg and Mycroft stared at him like he was an alien. John realised that bringing lunch from home was something you were not supposed to do. He made a mental note to tell his mum about it. Fortunately, Mycroft broke the silence when it was getting too awkward, "So, why didn't your parents keep... I don't know, homeschooling you?"

"They wanted me to get socialized, meet new people."

Mycroft and Greg smirked identically. Greg put a reassuring arm on John's shoulder, "Oh, don't worry. You'll get socialized all right, a hunk like you. Just give it a month."

"Gregory! God! I told you," he beckoned to John, "too gay-"

"Yeah whatevs," Greg growled, "But I guarantee you, you'll hit it off with many chicks here."

John did not want to tell them that he was not interested in girls at all. He looked in the direction of the school. Greg and Mycroft followed his gaze.

"Oh for God's sake, look at Philip Anderson. Isn't he wearing his pants inside out?!"

The three broke into laughter, "Of course he is," said Mycroft contemptuously, "Now John, whatever you do in school, you must remember that there are always some people who can ruin your life."

"Yeah, and they have a name. The Plastics."

John frowned, "What's Plastics?

"Teen royalty. Or at least they consider themselves to be royalty."

"If Westhaven was _The Times_, they would be there on every single page."

"And if there was a caste system here, everyone would be worshiping the ground upon which they walk. Well, everyone except us."

"That's right."

"And you too, now that you're one of us."

John looked at them hopefully, "I am?"

"Course you are, isn't that true Mycroft?"

"Yes, of course."

John looked at them with amazement. It was like they practiced their dialogues to be in sync with each other. "That one over there," Mycroft pointed to a tall boy with alabaster complexion and slightly long hair, "is Philip Anderson. He's one of the most stupid people on the earth, and I'm NOT exaggerating at all."

"Mycroft sat next to him in French last year."

"He asked me on which day Tuesday fell on. Goodness!"

Greg winked at John, "My gets really annoyed when stupid people talk to him." John smiled good-naturedly at that, thinking that Mycroft probably did not think of him as an idiot, even if he read uni-level calculus._  
_

"That brunette over there, Irene Adler. She knows everything about everyone... Anderson and Adler are best friends for life."

John looked at her. Her gym clothes consisted of the tiniest shorts ever forged by man, and a bandana for a shirt. John frowned, openly pointing at her, "Is that a... shirt or a handkerchief?"

"I don't know, John," said Mycroft with a chuckle, "But I do know that she's very rich and an absolute slut."

"And that phone of hers, there are all sorts of secrets in there."

"And evil takes a human form in Jim Moriarty," Greg pointed to a dark haired handsome guy, "They would have been an item, Jim and Irene, but Jim's gay."

"But people overlook this little fact because he's the leader of The Plastics. And whatever they do is the new fashion. School follows him like religion. There was this one time he punched a boy just because he felt like it."

"And that fellow said that it was the best damn thing that had ever happened to him."

"That is so lame," said John, frowning.

"I know," Greg shook his head, "As for Jim Moriarty, don't be fooled. He'll seem like a good ol' mate like the ones calling you on fishing and hunting trips. And then he'll break you down, and he'll stab you in the back."

"Seriously Greg? Fishing trips? Anyway," he turned to John, "not just that," Mycroft voice became a growl, "He's the self-proclaimed king of the school and those two, Philip and Irene, they're his minions."

John turned his head back towards Jim Moriarty, instant fascination arising in him.

"Last year, he made Irene's father talk to the Tower of London Security and let him wear the Crown Jewels."

Mycroft and John turned to him with a disbelieving face, "That's impossible."

"Didn't you see the photo?" he pleaded.

"It must have been Photoshopped, you idiot! God, I don't know why I stay with you. I'd rather stay with my painful brother."

"Your... brother? Oh, you've got a brother as well?" John asked, thinking about Harry and painful siblings. He could relate.

"Oh right..." Greg's eyes widened, "We haven't told him the main part yet."

John quirked an eyebrow at him, "Told me... what?"

"Yes, I've got a brother, in a manner of speaking. His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And he's one of the biggest reasons Jim Moriarty is on top of the 'food chain'."

"He's Jim's ex-boyfriend. Well, they've been going on again and off again and again since the last year."

"Quiet sort of fellow, doesn't really talk much, that is, until you go and talk to him."

"All the girls used to love Sherlock when he first arrived, that is, until they found out that he was homosexual."

"Some of the freshers who don't know about his orientation still fancy him, because he's a looker. But when they go and try to talk to him, they wish they had never known him."

"Gregory, don't talk about my brother like that. Not in front of me at least. You've truly out-gayed yourself."

_"Out-gayed?_ What sort of English is that, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft made an irritated face, "Anyway, Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant waste-of-space. But for some reason, girls love that. He does boxing and a little athletics and he's one of the best students in the school. That's why he's so popular."

"I can tell that Sherlock hates it," Greg spoke in a low voice, "all that attention. We have this special thing-"

"Shut it, Greg. Yeah so, it was obvious that Jim had to go out with him."

The bell rang and Greg stood up, helping John to his feet and then extending his hand to Mycroft, only to withdraw it at the last second and let Mycroft fall back on the grass.

"That's one for aiming a kick at me," he laughed merrily as he pulled John away, and then jostled with his best friend. John smiled at them. Suddenly, Mycroft's eyes fell on a bullhorn by the side of the field, "Greg, on your left."

Greg snagged the bullhorn as they passed. Right as they got to the door, he turned it on and announced into it, "Irene Adler is a Gucci Hoochie!"

John stared at him in confusion, wondering what he meant. Mycroft and Greg pulled him inside just in time as Irene Adler turned in their direction. Mycroft rolled his eyes, "You're just so gay to function!"

"What's a Gucci Hoochie?"

"A girl with a designer clothes worth 1000 bucks on a body worth 2 bucks," said Greg as Mycroft tried his best not to laugh or even get caught. If John was on the right track of thought, he could see what Mycroft and Greg looked like. They should marry. Totally.

* * *

It was all too much for John for the first day. School was not just about books and teachers. It was about who liked who, or who went out with who, or whom to say hi to and who to avoid.

But mostly, it was about what Irene Adler or Jim Moriarty wore and what all slangs they used.

Jim Moriarty.

John saw a close-up of the dark haired Irish teen outside English class. He did look like he might be the kind of person on top of the food-chain, going by the way people looked at him when he passed them in corridors. John could actually feel 'royalty' emanate from him as Jim passed him while he remained in a corner, unknown, unnoticed, unpopular. Jim was the most decently dressed fellow in the school, apart from Mycroft, of course. John watched the dark haired Irish teen with awe, wondering how someone could manage to be so much on top of the food chain.

Throughout the first day, John kept running into trouble, sometimes with the teachers, sometimes with discipline matters, because apparently kids weren't allowed food when they were hungry.

"No eating in the class!" Their math teacher shouted at him. John watched her with a scared expression on his face.

"But I'm hungry," he protested weakly.

"Well, I am too! But I'm teaching stupid sods like you, aren't I?"

That was very rude and very unprofessional of her but he didn't comment. He could _feel_ Irene Adler's curious eyes on him, "But-"

"In that case, finish your lunch outside the class!"

John nodded innocently at the scandalized teacher and obediently walked out of the class, finished his lunch and strolled back into the classroom.

"Where d'you think you're going, young man?"

John could not express how self-conscious he felt when the teacher shrieked at him. He thought that his best option was to tell the truth.

"To... my desk?" he looked at Greg, who was shaking his head as inconspicuously as possible. A bit not good_, _he thought.

"Go out and ask for permission," she snapped.

John looked at the students helplessly, who were all watching him with an amused expression on their faces. He walked out of the class and asked a little louder than necessary, "May I come in, Ms. - ?"

The Math teacher replied in the same volume in which he had spoken, "No. Stay outside for the rest of your life!"

And some similar anecdotes.

John had never felt so helpless in his life. He should have been mainstream-schooled a little earlier. No one had told him that he had to stay in one place, or that he had to have a 'lavatory pass' to go to washroom. He had never encountered adults who didn't trust him or kids who laughed at his expense or whenever he felt embarrassed. He had never had to worry about anything else than studying, playing and surviving the war. He was thankful for having moved from Afghanistan, but this was worse. The school was like a minefield and the students and teachers ready to explode upon the slightest contact. He felt like a victim, right on the first day in this new place called school. He wondered how the rest of the year would go.

John was a fool for having thought that the war was over. That surviving was over and now it was time to start living. In Secondary-school world, as Mycroft put it, war was never over.

* * *

**IMO stands for International Mathematical Olympiad. I think Mycroft was more inclined towards math... I don't know, he just looks like it... I'm planning on putting quite a considerable amount of Case Fic in chapters four and six. Please let me know if it's a good idea.**

**A big, big thanks to Guinevere81 (that's her pen name, I don't know if she's there on AO3) for britpicking it and for explaining me the complexities of the English high school stuff and about London!**

**Thank you all for reading :)**


	2. Getting to know Westhaven

**John comes to know about the various cliques in his new school, along with Sherlock Holmes.**

* * *

**I always wanted a cool teenager Mycroft, so that's what I did. After all, he's supposed to be "The Iceman"... Sorry for the lame joke.**

**Excuse my ignorance if I don't get some of the military terms correct. I had to google them out. My knowledge of military terminology is extremely poor and I'm happy to take any corrections.**

**It's not really true to the Mean Girls plot. I mean it is, but at the same time I took the liberty to change it accordingly so that it would fit more into the BBC Sherlock as well, like the first meeting between Cady and Aaron.**

**Also, I might have made John a little more dramatic than I intended to. Don't worry though, he's dramatic only when he meets Sherlock.**

* * *

When the bell for the lunch rang, he joined Mycroft and Greg and proceeded toward the cafeteria.

"Now," Greg began in a preaching manner, "where you sit during the lunch is very important because you've got everyone in there."

"You've got freshmen, OTC preps, Asian nerds..." Mycroft carried on, digging into his bookbag for another textbook to bury his brains into

"Cool Asians-" interrupted Greg.

"Art freaks and Pokemon geeks-" said he, scowling distastefully as Greg showed John that particular table.

"Unfriendly black hotties-"

"Greg, that's racist!" Mycroft chastised, "And also, girls who eat their feelings-"

"Girls who don't eat anything-"

"Desperate wannabes-"

"The greatest people you will ever meet-"

"That's us, hello again! And the worst-"

"Beware of The Plastics." they ended together.

Lunchroom seemed like the rec room in military barracks his dad had once told him about. Like Greg said, you had everyone there, all ranks of soldiers mingling together yet separated by an unspoken clique rule.

"All right," John began carefully, "Um... you guys do understand that I'll forget this... _information_ by today, don't you?"

"No. God no," Greg shook his head, "you are not allowed to do that!"

"Not at all," Mycroft agreed, biting absently into a pastry.

"My will be the Student Council President next year. I can tell you - My, stop it, you're on a diet!"

"God, Greg, so very gay to function!" Mycroft shook his head and looked at the pastry longingly, "You've been telling that to every new person we've been meeting-"

"Shut up, My!" Greg clapped him on his shoulder as if very proud of him, and then turned to John again, "So, yeah, like I was saying, My's gonna be the Student Council President next year. That's our senior year, by the way, but I guess you know that already."

John smiled politely. Of course he knew.

"It can be Jim as well," Mycroft said challengingly.

"Doesn't matter, My. You're the model student. Teachers love you. Jim just isn't president material."

Now John definitely felt out of place.

"Err - " he began, "I'll get some porridge for myself. I'll be right back."

They did not pay any attention to him as Greg continued to scold Mycroft on his diet like he was his mum, and Mycroft became surprisingly stubborn. John lifted his tray and proceeded to the front of the lunchroom.

"Hi! We're doing a lunchtime survey of new students," John turned around to see a pretty blonde girl with glasses, and with a blank notepad and pen in her hand, "Can you answer a few questions?"

John peeped into the blank notebook. Seemed like he was the first one_, _"Sure, be my guest."

"What's your name?"

"John. Watson."

"Is your cherry popped?"

His eyes narrowed, as he tried to contemplate what she meant, "Excuse me, my what?"

He could hear sniggers in the background.

"Okay, let's try this again. Would you like us to assign someone to help you pop your cherry?"

And before John could answer that he was allergic to cherries, there came a soft Irish drawl from behind him, "Is she bothering you?" He turned to find himself eye-to-eye with Jim Moriarty, the one person he was supposed to avoid. Nowhere as soft as his voice seemed to make him sound like, with dark and dangerous eyebrows set over a pair of menacing brown eyes, fast on his feet and intimidating even for his short stature. He gave him the sweetest smile in the universe before turning to the blonde girl.

"Oh come on now, Shania, don't be such a despo that you have to go for a pretend survey to get pretty boys to sleep with you! If he even wanted to, he would already have taken the hint, wouldn't he?"

The blonde girl cowered at his tone, as if acknowledging his supremacy. John watched the power play carefully before realising what Jim actually meant. "Sorry, what?" he was sure that he had misheard Jim.

"Do you want to have sex with her?" he asked him with an uninterested expression on his face, as if the answer should be obvious.

John looked uncomfortable for a moment. He hadn't realised that ''popping one's cherry'' meant that. Jim looked upon like him as if he were a complete virgin in such matters, which he obviously was. John replied with a polite, "No, thank you."

"See, that's settled. He's clearly not interested in you. Good afternoon, Shania," said he with a wicked smirk.

"Shut up," she hissed through her teeth, and then bit her tongue, clearly horrified that she had asked Jim Moriarty to 'shut up'.

"Good comeback," he sneered, "You should do stand-up."

The cheesy little blonde girl went off in another direction, clearly annoyed, and more than that, defeated. In her defence, she wasn't half-bad. But John just wasn't interested in women. He started to walk off in Greg and Mycroft's direction with a vague but polite 'thank you' to Jim and his group sitting in the exact centre of the lunchroom when he was arrested by Jim's cheerful voice.

"Wait. Sit down."

John tried not to frown at them in confusion to which Jim only replied, pushing a chair noisily in his direction with his feet, "Seriously. Sit _down_."

John obliged at the command, wondering what was so special in him that the most popular people had made him sit with them. He smiled at them.

"Why don't I know you?" Jim's tone was patronising, and feigning kindness, a detail John could obviously not tell, to whom Jim came across as helpful, almost as a saviour from a strange and uncomfortable situation during his first day in the lunchroom. But Mycroft didn't come across to him as an idiot, and he told him to be aware of the tricks that the Plastics could play, so he tried to stay on his guard like his new friends had advised him to.

"I'm new," he swallowed, and gave him a friendly smile, casting a glance at the rest of the Plastics sitting there who were watching him quite intently. The boy who Mycroft had named 'Philip Anderson' looked like he was trying to figure something out. He turned his attention back to Jim, "I just moved here from Afghanistan."

"Oh," the girl called Irene piped in. She was quite pretty, "I remember him. Ms. Richard, the math teacher, she turned you out of the class for eating, didn't she?"

"Did she now?" Jim started laughing, and although it was nice to hear him laughing pleasantly, it somehow sent shivers through John even though it was a normal August afternoon, "Oh God, that is hilarious! You actually ate in her class? Don't tell me it was something sugary."

John nodded his head nervously, "A small muffin, that's all, why what's wrong?"

All three of them giggled harder, "Nothing... except that she's on a no-sugar diet. Oh god, it is better than _porn_! You moved here from Afghanistan?"

"Yeah, I used to be home-schooled," John noticed how Jim did not bother introducing himself or his friends, as if he were sure that everyone knew about him, which was probably true because a newbie like himself did know about him.

"What?" It seemed like Jim was also the spokesperson of the Plastics.

"It's where you're taught at home-" John began, thinking that they were unfamiliar to the idea.

"No, I know what being home-schooled means, doofus!"

"So, you've never been to an actual school before?" asked Irene.

John shook his head, smiling at her...

_Be nice to everyone... _his father's voice wafted in.

Well, smiling _nicely_ at her.

"Homeschooled? Really interesting," Jim seemed to be speaking to himself as he crossed his arms over his chest and cast an eye over John, as if inspecting him. The gaze felt more like an X-Ray to John, who tried not to shift in his chair uncomfortably.

"Thanks."

Irene smiled too, "But you're like, so DDG and, you know, you look like you go to gym all 365 days a year."

Before John could reply, Philip spoke, his eyes bright because he _knew_ that bit of knowledge, "And 366 on a leap year."

"Thank you," although not having understood DDG, he tried not to offend him by smiling weirdly.

"So you agree." Irene looked like she had caught exactly what she wanted to hear.

"Sorry?"

"You think you're DDG?"

"Oh," that was such an awkward moment for him. He hadn't even understood what Irene had meant, "Um..."

"That's such a lovely _jumper,_" Jim started right on cue to ease the tension, "Where'd you buy that?"

"Err- my grandma made it for me."

"It is adoooooorable, I must say," he said appraisingly.

"Thanks," John smiled, coming under the spell of Jim's charming persona.

"So sexy."

Jim turned to Irene with a disdainful scowl on his face, "Really, Irene? That's all you could come up with? Sexy? _Jumpers_ are supposed to be adorable. Thank goodness you did not say 'fetch'. It's my thing!"

Irene clearly looked affronted at that.

"Can I ask you a question?" asked Philip.

"If it's not about some sex survey, then sure."

"If you're from Afghanistan... why are you white?"

"Oh my god, Phil! You can't just _ask _people why they're white!" Irene rolled her eyes at him dramatically.

Meanwhile, Jim looked at his two best friends, as if conversing via telepathy, "Could you excuse us for a few moments?" John nodded, mouthing 'okay' to them.

The group huddled together, as if discussing nuclear policy. John took his chance and shot an apologetic look in Greg and Mycroft's direction. They were clearly horrified. He could almost hear a silent duet of '_What are you doing?' _from them.

_I don't know, _he mouthed to them, before turning his attention back to Jim and his group. The three of them had sweet grins on their faces. John smiled too, feeling overwhelmed at the abundance of goodness and friendship on the first day. Maybe his first day wasn't that bad after all.

Okay John," Jim started slowly, "Let me just tell you that we don't do this very often, so this is like massive."

"We," Irene continued, "want to invite you to have lunch with us every day for the rest of the week."

"Oh, I-" he stole an involuntary glance at his friends, who were watching with rapt attention, "don't know..." After all, it was only for a week_. _"Sure, I guess."

"Charming," Jim beamed at him, speaking in the same patronising tone, "See ya tomorrow, Johnny boy! I'm going to make it my personal responsibility that by the end of the year, you're schnuckered in the awesomeness of Westhaven High," They left the table, waving at him. John waved back, smiling happily. Jim was so nice.

He could hear Irene whining after Jim, " 'Schnuckered' was my thing!"

John wondered what schnuckered meant. He heard Jim's trailing voice, "No, it suits me better, it's my thing now."

* * *

"What in Jesus' name was _that?"_

Greg and Mycroft had dragged John over to boys' lavatory just as all the cafeteria had been deserted, and they were conversing in hushed voices, keeping eyes out for any sign of the Plastics.

"They invited me over to their table," John said simply, "for lunch."

Their eyes grew wide with surprise. "Really?" apparently Greg couldn't believe his ears, "I didn't know that they could be interested in another human being."

Mycroft did not say anything. He had a triumphant smile on his face, "Tell me you said yes."

John looked at him, surprised. "I thought you said that they were... I don't know, toxic or something?"

Mycroft suppressed a laugh at that, "Did you say yes?"

"Umm... yeah. What is it? Have I done something wrong?" John asked quickly, afraid to have offended his new friends.

Mycroft's hundred watt smile just grew a million times brighter, "The best thing in your entire life. Now listen to me very carefully. I think you should do this."

"Do... what?"

Greg patted him on his shoulder, "Nothing much. Just sit with them at lunch-"

"-And tell us everything that Jim Moriarty says. Although, I think he's clever enough to avoid talking about, shall we say, unpleasant things in front of you-"

"You've gotta win his trust, or at least that of Anderson or Irene Adler's."

"Good thinking, Gregory-"

"Whoa whoa, hold on," John frowned at the espionage mission he was being sent on by his friends on the first day of his school, "I hate to tell you, but Jim seems okay. Nice, actually-"

"James Moriarty is NOT nice! He ruined my life! Are we clear on that?" Greg almost shouted. John looked at him, a bit spooked.

"Let's look at it this way," Mycroft wrapped a placating arm around Greg's shoulders as he led them outside the washroom, "You remember Snow White, John? Right, the evil queen in there, she's evil. But Jim Moriarty is not just evil. He's wicked."

John could not really comprehend the difference. They were supposed to be synonyms, right? But he wasn't going to argue with Mycroft Holmes, not when he was the state champion in debating and five times consecutive winner of Debating Matters UK.

"Yeah, My's right. He is the male version of a scum-sucking, selfish, back-stabbing bitch."

But John didn't quite take his words seriously, "Yeah right. I'll meet you in English, Greg. Bye both of you."

"Will you at least sit with them?!"

"What do I even talk about?" John protested, "I have no idea how things are supposed to work here!"

"Paris Fashion week?" Greg suggested, "Jim's into designer clothing and stuff." 'As am I' remained unspoken.

"Dieting and yoga?" Mycroft suggested, quite matter-of-factly, "Irene's worried sick about her weight all the time." And 'As am I' remained unspoken again.

John shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, "Okay. Anyway, I've already said yes, haven't I? Look, I've got Chemistry now. It's not really my forte, so... please?"

Mycroft smiled reassuringly and sauntered off with Greg out of the lavatory. John watched them with an unsaid apology in his mouth as their paths forked.

* * *

He found Room C quite quickly and sat down at a nice spot. There was no one familiar in that class, so he just buried his face in his book till the rat-faced professor arrived.

The class was going well enough for John. He understood it. He was going to get all his A-levels. Nothing in the chemistry class could mess him up.

And that's when the bomb dropped.

Halfway through the class, he heard a curt nod at the door as he was working out the products of the Claisen Condensation. He looked up like the rest of the class and his heart stopped right away as it made half a beat. John couldn't speak, couldn't hear anything. All he could see that there was a boy clad in a simple light blue shirt and trousers standing at the doorstep of _his _Chemistry classroom. He was so engrossed in him that he even missed his name.

"Ah, Mr. _, finally graced us with your presence, have you?"

John, unfortunately missed his name as his body came in contact with a big yellow school bus.

John had had only two other crushes in his whole life. One was his great cousin's friend, Randy, in Australia. He was very hot, he had dark hair and green eyes, and he was a surfer. It was then that John thought something was wrong with him for liking a boy instead of a girl. The other was a reporter on some German news channel called Erik Hofmannsthal that John had just tripped upon while flicking through channels. Although he never learnt German, he sort of loved listening to Erik's voice...

But this one... Holy smokes! John looked away at once as he felt himself hyperventilating at the thought of just being in his line of sight.

"May I come in?" said he in a lazy drawl, like he was just performing a formality. His baritone voice was deep and rich. John conjured up a mental image of slapping himself for becoming so goddamned loopy. He did not even know his name. He had known him, no, only set his eyes upon him for like five seconds.

"No, I'm gonna have to ask you to stay out of the class, Mr. _".

John was, once again, too busy to deal with the feeling of not being able to see him for the rest of the class, so much busy that he missed his name again. He could have died of a heart attack when he saw the mischievous smirk across Sherlock Holmes' face. Unfortunately, the smirk was directed at the professor and not at him.

"Really, Mr. Saunders?

"Wow!" John exclaimed to himself, "Did he just answer his teacher back? That was allowed?"

"How was the divorce?" he asked smugly, "And the settlement? The alimony that you're going to pay her for the rest of your life? And she still gets you to keep that waste-of-space snobby boy of yours and to fix the plumb lines around her house just before the school hours? Hmm? Do I hear you saying '_please come in and take a seat in my lousy class'_, or do I hear myself spilling some more _juicy _secrets of yours?"

The class burst into laughter. Well, all of them except for John, who was still recovering from his collision with the school bus, and had miraculously survived. Mr. Saunders's face was red with embarrassment, too red for an adult, as he waved the insolent, rude boy towards a general direction of the class.

The boy looked around, surveying the room for the best place. John knew that, being a new student, or new "meat"according to Greg, the only place empty was beside himself. As much as he wanted that boy to come and sit beside him just so John could find an excuse to talk to him, he really needed to avoid the distraction-

Too late. The boy had spotted the empty seat next to him and promptly sat down beside John. And all desperate hopes of learning Chemistry were dashed.

He gave John no indication that he had even noticed him, except for a second where their eyes had locked. Thankfully, John found a moment to recover and return to his normal self. The boy beside him simply took out a notebook with black cover as he muttered to himself all the reactions that were done. He took a fresh page and started scribbling on it with a pen lying on John's side of the desk. His handwriting was striking, not very good, but legible and clear, with a gap of exactly one centimetre between the words. John could smell the expensive cologne on him. It made him aware just how close they were sitting together.

He was flawless.

John suppressed a shiver at that, at the warmth emanating from him and yet the cold disregard of his surroundings or his teacher.

That's when John realised that the boy was using his pen for writing. He checked if there was another in his bag, rather than taking the risk of talking to him and losing his head...

Nope. He hated his luck. And he cleared his throat, forming the words in his head.

"Hmm... Aldol, Birch, Cannizzaro, Claisen-" Sherlock muttered to himself.

"Sorry, but you're penning my use for writing."

The young man turned to him and glowered at him. At least, that's what it would have looked on any other person. John could finally see what a piercing gaze felt like.

"Sorry what?"

He winced, slapping himself mentally a few hundred times before speaking again, "I mean, you're using my pen for writing and it's the only one that I have."

"Oh!" Sherlock kept it back on John's table and searched for another one in his own bag. He didn't have one. John felt a painful and a totally unreasonable pang of guilt at that. After a minute or two, John, unable to contain himself, blurted out, "It's okay, if you want to... use my pen-"

A small, half - smile, a departure from his blatant coldness, touched his lips, something that John seemed to stare at for more time than what was normal and appropriate, "Okay."

And all his notes were gone for the day.

John tried to make the most of the situation. He stared at the board, trying to at least memorise those reactions. But it was so hard to think. Especially where there was a criminally handsome young man sitting barely inches from you who had the power to cloud your thoughts. But it was not just the man, it was his aloofness which affected John so much. He had never met anyone like him.

If there was one thing that could bring John back to Earth, it was the mysterious man's rich voice, "It's... okay. I don't really need-"

"No, it's fine!" he smiled at him, trying to come across as friendly, just to cut through that veil of mysterious coldness, "I mean, it's completely okay."

Sherlock glanced up at Mr. Saunders, their chemistry teacher and then back at John, "If you want, I could lend you my notes after the class," he offered.

John's throat had become very dry all of a sudden. His luck was too good, "Sure, that'd be great... no," he tried not to shake his head and look like a dog drying itself after an unhygienic shower as he spoke quickly, covering up for his wrong choice of words, "God, I didn't mean great, I only meant that it's just fine - !"

His face softened very little as he nodded, "You're new here."

John's heart skipped a beat, "You know about me?"

"No. But I saw it. You're uncomfortable here. That, coupled by the visible tan line in your wrist and the Tower of London souvenir in your pencil pouch tells me that you've been abroad recently. I could have considered that you were on holiday to the tropics, but then why the Tower of London memento? Because you're new to London, obviously. Only tourists and first-timers buy that stuff, and keep it with themselves as well."

John's heart could have skipped all the beats. It was a mystery how he was still alive. "That was brilliant!"

His eyes narrowed, as if trying to judge whether John was being sarcastic, "You think so?"

John took a deep breath to stabilise himself, "Yes of course. And that divorce thing too. Did you figure that one out similarly too?"

Sherlock still hadn't recovered from his surprise, having not been used to it. "Absence of his wedding band. About the boy, that is because when he was shouting at me, I could see his phone ringing and the photo of a person flash on the screen which could only be that of his son. Divorce, and son calling continuously. Conclusion: father got son's custody. And a quick look at his trouser knee told me that he was undertaking plumbing work, something that was done before he came to school. The man has a housekeeper, she could have called a plumber. Therefore not at his house. Where else? Ex-wife. And not parents. Otherwise he would have called a plumber for them. What's different in the case of wife? He needs to win her back so that he doesn't have to incur the loss of at least five hundred a month. So, he's playing Mr. Good Husband to her."

"That... was amazing!" he finished, completely overwhelmed by the display of cold, dazzling brilliance. Screw his looks, there was just so much more than that, so much more to the coldness and the arrogance.

Another half-smile adorned the side of Sherlock's plush lips, "That's not something you get to hear every day."

John looked at him in clear confusion, "You're kidding! No one's told you that it was amazing before?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, trying to come across as nonchalant, "I'm used to it anyway." John tried to wonder what he meant by that.

After that they sat in silence, listening to their teacher. John, with constantly wavering attention and tapping fingers on the desk, and Sherlock with arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched to their full length, and a bored expression on his face. John wanted to introduce himself, and ask him his name. He put his pen down, and prepared the words in his head... And then, bell rang and Sherlock cast a half-glance in John's direction and slipped out of there smoothly, becoming the first one to walk out of the classroom and leaving John utterly disappointed. He did not even know his name. He looked down at his black leather-bound notebook and remembered that he had to copy the notes down. He turned to that page. Everything was clear as crystal. It was written in precise handwriting and the notes were cold and crisp. But what caught John's attention were those initials.

**_Property of SH._**

SH. Did he know those initials? No. He couldn't remember anything...

Sherlock Holmes. SH. Greg and Mycroft's words played in his head.

That was Mycroft's brother. That was Jim Moriarty's ex. From what John had understood in the lunch, the way he argued with Irene over 'fetch' and 'schnuckered', James Moriarty was possessive. Very possessive.

So... ex... that's a good thing, wasn't it? Being Ex?

* * *

**Again, huge thanks to Guinevere81 for britpicking this chapter :)**

**Thank you all for those who are reading this! x**


	3. Being A Lifesaver

**Okay! I said that John "slowly" fell for Sherlock... That was NOT slow! My apologies.**

**Like I said, I'll be going a little off the movie.**

**This chapter is dedicated to the loveliest of lovely Loo Brealey and the sweet Molly Hooper :)**

* * *

John was completely love-struck. He hated that idea. He tore out the letter carefully, folded it neatly and slipped it inside his notebook.

Or, he was going to do that when he realised what a weird thing that would be. But that was the only thing he had to remind him of Sherlock Holmes. Apart from his expensive looking notebook as well.

But he would have to return that, won't he? The thought of seeing him again sent sparks of anticipation through him. He checked his schedule again. He had Chemistry on all days except for Monday.

Well, you're supposed to hate Mondays anyway. But now, John contemplated about hating the weekends as well.

He decided not to tell Greg or Mycroft about his meeting with Sherlock Holmes. As nice as they seemed, they were sort of... interfering. Then, they would tell him something like _Sherlock Holmes is Jim's ex-boyfriend, but they get together every now and then until one of them breaks it off again._

Gosh, how could anyone break up with that gorgeous man?

John hadn't noticed that the class had become almost empty. He rushed out into the corridor and towards Room E3, towards his English class. He slipped the notebook inside his bag. He did not want Greg to see it.

* * *

As the bell rang, signalling the end of Biology and the end of school as well, Henry Knight was the first person to walk out of the class. Ms. Hooper was collecting her things clumsily, and Greg was, as usual, mentoring John. The whole class rose out and started to walk out, not even caring to listen to what Ms. Hooper had to say. Henry Knight dropped something just as he passed John. It was a packet, with very colourful little pills inside it.

"John!" came Ms. Hooper's voice. He decided that she was very nice. She was the only one who bothered to learn her students' names. Greg shot him a questioning look.

"Wait for me outside, please," said John, afraid that Greg would leave him alone in that big school, "I'll be back." Greg gave him a 'no worries' , "I'll be near the exit, okay? You'll find your way, won't you?"

"Thanks," he smiled gratefully which turned into a snarl as Greg ruffled his hair, "Coming Ms. Hooper." As Greg exited, John picked the packet up, thinking it's some candy and went over to Ms. Hooper, resisting the urge to take one out of it.

"Hey John," she sat down on her chair, stuffing a donut into her mouth, "Want some?" She offered it to him. John was feeling a little hungry, "Yeah okay, thanks. Er... Ms. Hooper," he handed her the packet, "Henry Knight dropped these-"

Ms. Hooper took one look at the pouch. She instantly went livid and rushed out of the classroom, after Henry.

"Henry!"

John stared after her for a moment, and then chased her down as well, only to end up in an empty stairwell, where Ms. Hooper had cornered Henry Knight the flight below.

"Henry, you cannot function at school on ecstasy! And that too on the first day! Ever thought about how your mother would feel about this?!" John's eyes widened as he glanced at his fingers, then tried to rub them off on the wall, horrified that he had touched drugs, and even more horrified that he had even thought of taking them. He stared at Henry below, who was licking the binding of his textbook. Ms. Hooper snatched it away and Henry looked like he wanted to jump off.

"I didn't take it!" He protested, "I found it at a club!"

"Henry," she shook her head resignedly, "My brother was an addict. I'm really good at telling when people are high. If you come to my class high again, I will know!"

Henry's eyes rolled out of focus as he reached out to touch Ms. Hooper's auburn hair, "Shhh," said he, trying to sound reassuring, while John watched the whole episode, "Don't be scared..."

"Ew, Henry!" she backed away, "stop touching my hair!"

"Are you gonna turn me in to the principal, Ms. Hooper?" He asked. Ms. Hooper looked sympathetic as she searched his bag for more. She found three more pouches as Henry flashed a weird grin at her, "Henry, I don't want you to get kicked out of school," she takes her handkerchief out and moistens it with some water, before kindly dabbing his face with it, "I want you to go to university, okay? Promise me you won't get high anymore-"

The rest of the conversation was lost as John found himself face to face with Principal Stamford, "Oh hello, homeschool. Are you wondering where the exit is?"

John looked lost for a moment, torn between giving him an explanation and listening to Ms. Hooper's sermon, "Er, I-"

"Oh, Molly!" Principal Stamford rushed towards her, evidently pleased to find his favourite teacher, and then slightly scowled at the sight of Henry and moreover when he realised that he was high, he started playing the knight in shining armour.

"Ms. Hooper," he whispered into her ear, a flimsy pretext to get closer, "He's high." Meanwhile, she looked conflicted. She had already promised to Henry about not telling Stamford anything. But she didn't have a choice. She looked up and saw John standing there, who now felt that his presence wasn't appropriate at all.

"Er... Mr. Stamford. I caught Henry here with some ecstasy tablets, but" she became passionate here, "Henry is such a good boy! He always answers in my class, and I swear that he must have just found it- you know-how teenage boys are like... please don't expel him, he's just a child!"

"Ms. Hooper," Mr. Stamford turned grave, his Principal persona coming through.

"No, please, he's such a good student, Mr. Stamford. For me, please," she pleaded, "He promised me that he would never take these things again! I'll talk to his mother about it, get him into a rehab..."

Molly looked so sincere and so pleading that Mr. Stamford decided to give in. He turns to Henry sternly, "Okay, but next time, I won't be excusing Harry's behaviour here."

"Henry," she corrected him, immensely relieved. John smiled to himself. She really was a saint. She was actually risking her career over a student who came to school while he was high.

"Yeah, Henry," he nodded, "let me see those pills."

Ms. Hooper acquiesced cheerfully and led Henry away, motioning to John to follow her. John watched as Mr. Stamford went to throw the pouch in the trash, and then realising that someone else might find it, he went to his office and locked the door behind him. John wondered what he was going to do with it.

* * *

"I'm sorry you had to see that," said she as they entered her classroom and settled down on her chair again, munching on her donuts, "Please don't tell anyone about it."

John tried to smile reassuringly, "Don't worry, I won't."

"Thanks. So," she leaned forward, clasping her fingers together, "How was your first day? You're comfortable here, I mean except for that..."

"Yeah, I am. It's okay" he said brightly. Nobody had asked him that, not even cared. He felt slightly happy.

"Are people nice?"

"Not really."

Her face fell a little, "Did you make some friends?"

Now John felt a little awkward, "Um-yeah."

Ms. Hooper stared at him, confused, but she carried on, "Anyway, I saw your responses during the class. You were homeschooled, right?"

"Yes, my mum taught me. Biology was always my favourite."

"Well," she smiled benevolently, "that's good. Because I'm going to ask you something here, about an olympiad. You know what olympiads are, don't you John?"

John merely shook his head. He lived in Afghanistan for God's sake! He couldn't be expected to know everything!

"Well, these are the only exams that let you get to international levels. I'd like you to try for this."

She drew out an A4 size paper. On it was written BBO and its details.

"This is an olympiad exam I should like you to try. Every year, our school has representatives in Mathematics and Physics ones... you know the Holmes brothers, don't you? Well, Sherlock," John felt an immeasurable amount of heat travelling up to his cheeks at the mention of his name, "he's really good at Chemistry, and I've always requested him to sit for the RSC Chemistry Olympiad, but he doesn't listen to me. Last year, I filled the form on his behalf and Mycroft, his brother," she supplied, "gave me the samples of his signature," she dropped her voice as John smiled at the idea, "Don't tell him that, but he didn't appear on the day of the... oh, I'm rambling again! So, anyway, these people here suck at bio and you're the best here, so... would you like to try?"

He seemed delighted, "Yeah, sure."

"Great, so... anytime, you feel like you have some doubts, don't hesitate, just call me and I'll help you out, okay? Meanwhile, i'm going to tell Henry's mother all about this!"

* * *

After the school, Greg invited John for a friendly soccer match. But they lost anyway. Greg was a very good player, John discovered. He also found out that he too was an above-average player at least. But whatever, rugby was still better.

"Nice game, John."

"Yeah, look who's talking!" John wiped off the sweat with a towel, "God, I need food and some shower."

"Oh come on mate," Greg gave him a light slap on his back, "You'll learn in no time and ..." he trailed off.

"Yeah and...?" Greg was looking at someone over his shoulder.

"What's Sherlock Holmes doing here watching a soccer match _after _it's over?" he exclaimed before John could turn to look.

He froze on the spot. _What was HE doing here?_

"And I swear he was looking in our direction before I spotted him."

John decided to turn around and face him, only to make his heart stop again and the serotonin levels in his blood skyrocket. He was...

_So hot._

"What!"

John snapped out of it. "What?"

Greg had a playful smirk on his face, "You... said... so hot?"

John was thankful to all heavens above him that his cheeks were already flushed due to the game. "Yeah course," he started hyperventilating, "You aren't feeling hot? I really need a shower."

He cast a final glance at the road. Sherlock Holmes was gone. Disappointments were starting to become a permanent thing.

"Yeah, I'm smoked too but not as much as you. Well, I would be if I were also enchanted by my best friend's brother."

John tried to look horrified and failed miserably. Greg chuckled at that, "Aw, look at you. Such an adorable twelve year old schoolgirl."

"I- I'm not-"

"Yeah yeah, I've had enough of that, don't try to fool me! God, John," he started laughing.

"I'm not... gay," John stammers out before Greg can say anything else, "I'm just not interested in women."

"Yeah, I've heard plenty of that-"

"And by the way," John crossed his arms, a smirk playing across his face, "You were the one who had a _thing _with Sherlock Holmes, huh?"

Greg laughed out loud, "Oh God, was I that good? It's nothing like that. You should see My's face whenever I praise Sherlock in front of him. He's usually very good at hiding his expressions. In fact I think he practices them in front of a mirror."

John sat down on the grass, gulping down the water, "You serious?"

"You have no idea. My takes part in debates all the time, and always wins. How do you think he manages that?"

John shrugged his shoulders, "I don't know, he must be really good at presenting his points?"

Greg shook his head, "Everyone can do that, John. It's more about the attitude and the confidence. So yeah, the only way My gets **really** pissed off is when some idiot talks to him or when I start praising his brother. Of course, I'm not going to be an idiot. So... there it is. But you... you've already met him, haven't you?"

John tried to appear innocent. Boy, he wasn't going to leave him alone, was he?

"Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Otherwise you would have said '_so this is Sherlock Holmes', _hmm?"

John's pulse almost tripled its rate when he noticed how similar Greg's humming sounded like that of Sherlock's.

"You share a class with him, don't you?"

John gave in. There was no point in lying to Greg, "Yeah. Chemistry."

"Woo hoo... right on the first day!"

John rolled his eyes, "Yeah whatever."

"But, John, you know that he's Jim Moriarty's ex, right?"

_And here it comes. _John was about to tell him to sod off and that Sherlock Holmes was none of his business.

"No, mate. I know what you're thinking," Greg gave him a reassuring smile, "I'm not saying that you're not allowed to like him or something. I'm just saying that... be careful. Jim loves ruining people's lives for no apparent reason. And he has pretty good reason to try and destroy you."

John nodded, keeping his words in mind, "See you tomorrow," he mumbled, getting up and giving Greg a thumbs up.

"Evening. See you with the Plastics," he teased him with a grin.

John started walking away from the field. He turned around the corner when he heard a voice that stopped him dead in his tracks, "Nice game there. Although, I would say that you used to play rugby, didn't you?"

A hand reached his chest involuntarily. He tried to cover it up with "God, you scared me. Don't worry, I'll return you your notebook."

_Oh shoot! _The bad thing about John was that whenever he was in such situations, his 'flight or fight' instincts took over. And 'fight' usually won.

"I'm sorry... " John said quickly as he spotted one eyebrow threatening to go mid-air, "It... just came out. I'm sort of very uncomfortable right now."

Sherlock cast an examining gaze at him, hands behind his back. John took this moment to notice how immaculately dressed he was, "Yes, I can see that. I tend to make _people_ uncomfortable. You must be hungry. Obviously, you've had nothing since you came back from school."

_Obviously? _John was alarmed. _How did he know that?_

Sherlock smirked at his expression. "Perhaps I'll explain that to you over some... nibbles?"

_Was that a date?_

His mind and soul answered wholeheartedly with a NO.

_No! Why would Sherlock Holmes be interested in a nobody like me?_

"I don't have cash."

Sherlock smiled, this time an honest one. Not an awkward one like the first time he gave him. Not a smirk that seemed to be his signature. It was a real, honest smile. Perhaps over John's stupidity.

_Of course, he thinks that I am stupid. If he can know all sorts of things about people just by a look and think that all of it is obvious... _He wondered whether that was how Greg felt around Mycroft.

"Do you have a hearing impediment?" he looked annoyed but his voice almost betrayed him, "I mentioned refreshments, not money."

John would have taken offence to that had a memory not come to his head.

_Anyway, Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant sod. But for some reason, girls love that... _Maybe he was just like that.

"Sorry. Erm... fine. Where are we going?"

"Angelo's. Gives me a free meal everytime."

_Of course. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't spend his money on me._

"Oh. Friend of yours?"

Sherlock gave one of his signature smirks before replying. "No. I got him off a murder charge."

John nearly choked. "What?" He looked up at him. Sherlock was clearly enjoying it.

"It's okay," said he, "You'll get used to it."

"Used-? What do you mean?"

Meanwhile they had reached the restaurant. Sherlock strode in confidently, leaving John staring after him. He obviously knew the manager Angelo very well, by the looks of it. Sherlock turned to see where John had gone. He raised his eyebrows dramatically and beckoned him over. John had no choice but to follow him. He settled down in the chair opposite to him. He had a feeling that Sherlock wasn't fibbing. John completely forgot his one-day infatuation with him as his curiosity got the better of him.

"So let me get this straight. You... got him off a murder charge. Why am I even believing you?"

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, "That's because it's the truth."

"Sherlock!" The man John had assumed as Angelo hurtled over to their table, "Anything you want, free, on the house, for you and your date."

He smiled pleasantly at him, "Thank you Angelo. John, you heard him. Pick anything you want." John was too busy staring at Sherlock to reply properly, "Err-I- not his date-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Pick anything you want _from the menu_. I hate repeating myself."

_He did not mind when Angelo called me his date. That should be a good thing, right?_

But when he reviewed the conversations Sherlock Holmes had had with him till then, it was more possible that he did not just care. He looked up to the two of them. Angelo was waiting with a patient expression on his face, whereas Sherlock looked bored as always.

"Are you sure it's free?" John asked for one last time, thinking of ordering the best from the menu. Sherlock shot him a look which made him cower, "I'll... um," he had no idea why he was feeling so guilty and in the end, he ended up ordering a simple tomato pasta, while Sherlock managed a "my usual." Angelo gave both of them a thumbs up and walked away.

"So..." he began awkwardly, "You do... realise that you haven't even told me your name yet."

Sherlock frowned, "I thought I had my initials on my notebook."

He looked at the lanky teen disbelievingly, "And I'm just supposed to know your name from your initials?" Even though he did, John did not want to admit it.

"Oh, please! I'm famous," he exclaimed haughtily, "Even if you were new, you would have heard of me."

John tried not to look appalled at that all-important remark as smiled a little to hide his discomfort, "Right. Have you ever heard of something called formal introductions?"

"Tedious," he exclaimed, like he had just passed a verdict.

"Hmm." John had no idea what to talk to him about. He looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. He averted his gaze and bit his lip, "So... you like soccer?"

Sherlock frowned, "No, what gave you that idea?"

"Well, I saw... you watching the game. Well, after the game got over-um..."

_Then what was Sherlock doing there? _John found himself reddening at the only explanation that came up.

"Oh, I was just passing by. I happened to see... Lestrade, so I stopped."

He was right. Disappointments were starting to become a permanent thing. "Lestrade?"

"The boy you were talking to."

"Oh...so you stop by everytime you... see Gre-Lestrade?"

Sherlock looked away. It was clear that he wasn't really interested in this conversation. Just when he thought that this was ultimate, the awkwardness seemed to reach a new level.

"You said you got him... Angelo... off a murder charge."

His eyes narrowed, "Has anyone told you that you have a remarkable gift to state whatever has already been repeated?"

For a moment John lost himself in his eyes. They seemed green. Instead of grey. His throat had gone really dry. He grabbed the glass of water and gulped it down. Sherlock was spotlessly dressed in that same purple shirt and the black trousers. John looked down at himself. Muddy t shirt and shorts and he was still sweating. And now his palms had also joined in.

"Sorry - ahem," he tried to cover up his embarrassment, "- could you just... elaborate on that?"

"Three years ago, I successfully proved to Detective Inspector Lestrade that during a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of the town, housebreaking."

"DI Lestrade... Greg's father is a detective?"

"Yes."

John was slowly gaining some confidence, but talking to him was still difficult as hell, "Okay... I'm assuming he doesn't know anything about it. He was briefing me with everything in the school today. He would certainly have told me."

Sherlock smiled triumphantly and leaned in, taking up John's personal space. John felt the heat rising in his cheeks. "No one knows about it. Only his father and I. If word gets around that I'm clearing up those mysteries, then I might get into danger."

At the mention of "danger", an overwhelming surge to protect Sherlock Holmes arose in John. He shut his stupid unnecessary mental processes down

"Then why're you telling me this?"

Sherlock frowned, "Sorry?"

John started slowly, "If you can get into danger because of this, how can you trust me to keep your secret? You've just met me."

There was an indecipherable look on Sherlock's face for a moment, which was replaced by the ever-impassive one, "As for how I knew that you hadn't eaten anything, I know at what time these matches usually start. You are a new student, and hence you'll obviously have an obligation to go home and see your parents first. You don't seem the detached type, because you kept that Tower Of London memento with yourself, the one that your parents must have given you and because you were wearing that jumper. Means that you're quite attached to them. Now you could have had a sandwich or something, but then the crumbs should be visible on your outfit but they aren't since you came away in a hurry and you couldn't have brushed them away. So, means that you haven't eaten anything."

John did not realise that he had been holding his breath as Sherlock fired away conclusions after conclusions about him.

_Wow! Amazing! Wait... my jumper? _

"Is my jumper that bad?" he spoke out loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

Before Sherlock could answer, John's phone started ringing. He gulped and took out his phone. His mum was calling.

"Sorry, I'll have to take this. Hey mum... no, I'm out with a friend... yeah... I'll be back... within half an hour, yes...I'm okay... bye."

Sherlock was watching him for some time with amusement as he spoke, "That was not quite the reaction I was expecting."

"What-?"

"You mentioned your jumper," Sherlock did not even touch his plate. It was quite obvious what Sherlock had expected.

Appreciation. The way John saw it now, he realised why of all people, he was the one Sherlock Holmes had dragged to the restaurant. He was still hooked onto the fact that someone had called his necromancy amazing, "Yeah... I mean, that was quite extraordinary like always, your conclusions. That's general knowledge..."

And that's why Sherlock had told him about solving mysteries.

"... but I didn't know that my jumper was so..."

Sherlock frowned, "Don't worry. You don't look like an idiot. Yes, that jumper's hideous but... "

_Was that Sherlock Holmes version of a compliment?_

"... logically speaking, a person can't be branded as an idiot just by looking at them."

John stared disbelievingly at him and then burst into laughter.

_Why am I laughing? That wasn't even funny!_

"What?" he looked affronted.

"Oh no, I'm not laughing at you. It just... ahem... sorry... anyway, I'm asking you for the last time. Why am I here?"

_Not that I mind. Complete opposite of that._

"Because you were hungry."

John gave him a look so sharp that made Sherlock get on with it. He cleared his throat, "I was here on a case."

_Right. A case. He's not even an adult and he has a case._

"... and I was wondering if you could help."

* * *

**FYI, BBO stands for British Biology Olympiad. It's the first step to the International Biology Olympiad, very prestigious examination and all...**

**Again, a huge thanks to Guinevere81 for proof reading this and britpicking it! She really has done a wonderful job!**


	4. Time Of My Life

**This Sherlock is a little more sensible. Because Aaron Samuels was sensible as well. Okay, agreed that he was dumb but he was sensible.**

**Crimes on the way. Unlike the movie, I'm gonna make Sherlock and John good friends before the infamous Halloween party.**

**So, it's still a loooooong way to go.**

* * *

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I was here on a case and I was wondering if you could help."

_Help? How can I help you solve criminal mysteries?_

John did not voice his doubts. He simply nodded, and tucked into the meal just as it arrived. Sherlock didn't even touch his plate. After watching John eat for sometime, he spoke, "I've observed that I think better when I explain it to someone else."

"It?" John finally found his voice as he choked on the pasta.

Sherlock suddenly stood up, "Come with me." He ran out of the restaurant. John looked down at his poor half-finished meal. After moments of serious contemplation, he muttered, "God damn it to hell!" and stuffed some of pasta into his mouth. After five to six blocks, Sherlock stopped and whispered directly into John's ears, who had caught up with him rather quickly than Sherlock had expected him to, "John, I think a woman is in danger."

John shuddered when his warm breath tingled in his ears. Nevertheless, he got the message, "Call the police?"

"There's no time for police. Now listen to me, I'm going to break into that flat," he subtly pointed to a flat on fifth floor, "You will-"

John's eyes widened at that prospect, "No, Sherlock, are you-"

_Mad? Crazy? Insane? Demented? Out of your friggin' mind? Delirious? Nuts? Barmy?_

"-sure?" he finished lamely.

Sherlock answered, extremely irritated, "Of course, John. I would not have suggested it if I had not thought it through. Now, you'll make sure no one interrupts me while I'm at work."

He did not even bother to ask whether John wanted to do this or not. He simply went round about the building, checking all sorts of exits and vantage points. He climbed over the back wall, not even paying a single second of attention to John. Thankfully, living in Afghanistan meant that John was used to such scenarios, and he was able to follow Sherlock without much difficulty.

"There's a fire exit there, secured by a padlock. I'll pick it, you make sure nobody gets here."

And after five minutes, they were inside the building, having bypassed the security personnel outside. As soon as they were about to reach the lobby, Sherlock grabbed John urgently and pinned him against the wall, looking extremely annoyed.

"Be careful John," he hissed, pointing at a distance, "CCTVs. The security personnel will come running to get you the instant they spot us."

John's heart rate had increased exponentially. He simply nodded, mumbling something incoherent and possibly apologetic.

"We have to use the stairs. We must not be seen." He beckoned to him towards the opposite direction. "Main Power room," he whispered, "I'm going to cut off all of it. Make sure you knock out anyone who comes here." And with that, Sherlock set to open the lock to the room. Within a minute, it stood open.

"It'll take them at most twenty minutes before they come here and restore the lights. We have to get out of the building before that. So start running as soon as I switch it off. Start the flashlight in your phone as soon as you reach the stairs."

John nodded again, "Are you sure you don't want to... phone a friend?"

Sherlock flashed one of his smirks, "But you're already here. Three, two, one, go!," and he switched the power off. The whole building went black instantaneously.

He remembered that he had to run. So he did, with Sherlock close behind. He switched on the flashlight and ran like the devil, both of them. In a minute they reached fifth floor and almost crashed near the door of the flat he had to break into. Right on time, John brought the flashlight to the lock.

"Shoot!" he cursed softly, "It's a computer lock. How could I not have expected that?" John's head began spinning in confusion. His mum was continuously calling him, but he had to press 'Reject Call' every time. "So, we won't be able to get in?"

"It'll take more time. And by then, the lights will have been restored and we'll be caught. John," his face was illuminated in the blue light, and he looked so... intense with those piercing eyes of his, "Leave. Now!"

"I'm not going to leave you, you idiot!"he said resolutely, "Either **we** stay or **we** leave."

John could have sworn that a tiniest fraction of a smile had appeared on Sherlock's face, though why he might have done so was beyond him at the moment, "Alright, keep your hands steady."

John smiled, "Aye aye, sir!" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock trying his best not to smile. Within five minutes of fumbling and undignified French curses, Sherlock opened the door very deliberately and kept a finger to his lips, "Turn the light off."

John did as he was told and was at once welcomed by a string of German and Serbian words. His rational mind was tearing him apart. He should have called the police without allowing for Sherlock's demands. These guys could be anything. Drug dealers, smugglers, hitmen and a lot of other things. His eyes darted everywhere. Sherlock might not have been keen on his safety, but John had to be sure of it. The only emergency exit route seemed to be the balcony and he sure as hell wasn't going to jump even if desperate situations called for desperate measures.

But even if he felt nervously nervous, he trusted Sherlock. A sort of trust that just existed. He knew that Sherlock would have some back up plan in his mind.

"They're in the inner rooms," Sherlock whispered into his ear, as quietly as possible, "We need to find the woman and get her out of here alive."

"And ourselves too. If I die here Sherlock, I swear my ghost will get back at you for it."

"Ghosts don't exist, John-"

"Shhh..." They both stiffened at the unintelligible voice coming from the inner rooms. The voice of a woman.

"Did you hear that?" he mumbled, "They have the woman as captive."

Sherlock listened. "Yes." His face became grave. Without John's knowledge, he whipped out his phone and typed out a text, hiding the phone behind himself.

"What do we do now, Sherlock? How are you planning to take on five-so grown and possibly armed men and get out of here?"

Sherlock smiled and shifted towards the dark, "Create a fire. Make them evacuate."

John frowned, "How?"

Sherlock came into view again and looked directly into John's eyes, the promise of danger glittering in them, "I have a lighter. They have a gas cylinder." He pointed in the direction of the kitchen.

"Are you mad?" he almost growled without thinking, "You'll get us all killed."

"No, of course not. Use the law of effusion! It requires a large magnitude of leak rate to create an explosion. I've done several experiments at home pertaining to that, and I can handle it, John."

John's head swirled at the explanation. He shook his head, "Couldn't you just burn the curtains instead of using a theoretical law-?" But the cold-blooded scream of a woman silenced both the boys for a moment.

"Listen to that, she's dying. We need to act fast. And curtain fire can easily be extinguished and then they'll know that someone in the house has set them on fire and then we'll be found."

John's heart turned to lead on hearing that. _We couldn't be found. Sherlock couldn't be found._

"As soon as I give you the signal, start moving as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible towards the room in which the lady is kept in. In case there's an explosion, which I guarantee won't be there, you'll be farthest from the kitchen, so there's some chance that you'll be safe."

"Be careful," he mouthed to Sherlock.

"Trust me." And he walked off stealthily in the direction of the kitchen.

Even in the danger, John could not help but notice how perfect Sherlock's body was. He was lean, but in a healthy sort of way, and not like his ribs were sticking out his chest. John tried to tell the little voice in his head that that was because his shirt was so tight that it was almost see-through and that he only _happened _to notice it. He watched Sherlock Holmes sit near the cylinder, starting the countdown on his watch. He was going to keep the valve open for exactly a minute and a half. Mad man or not, Sherlock trusted him. He had no idea how very much special it felt to know he was the only person in the world that Sherlock Holmes had confided in about his secret occupation.

If Sherlock could trust him, so could he. Sherlock considered him a friend. He could do friends. For the moment. He looked at his watch, straining his eyes. Five minutes were still remaining. They were behind on their schedule. Sherlock almost crawled towards him and with a flick of his wrist, threw the alighted cigarette lighter into the kitchen. He grabbed a piece of Chinese crockery and threw it against the wall.

"GO!" he whispered urgently.

John moved swiftly towards the room. When he had reached it and crawled into it as soon as the men came out, he realised that Sherlock hadn't told him the full plan. Because as soon as they reached the kitchen in a desperate attempt to extinguish the flames, Sherlock locked three of them inside.

"Watch out!" John screamed, remembering just in time to avoid his name.

Sherlock turned and almost ducked in time as a baseball bat came down crashing on his head. Everything forgotten, John grabbed a gun lying on the floor, pointing at them, said in a impassive and icy voice, "Let him go, or I'll shoot you in the-"

John stopped as he saw the look of terror in Sherlock's otherwise brilliant eyes, as the two men who held him down sneered at something behind him.

"Drop that gun, kiddo," came a cool, female voice and the feeling of hard coldness of a gun against his temple made his stomach drop. He was as good as dead.

"You pull the trigger," he continued in the same icy voice, "and the same goes here."

The woman laughed as she came into view, "Nice. Okay, what about this?" In a twinkle of an eye, she had the gun pointed at Sherlock, "Your lovely friend over here? Be a good boy now and hand over the gun."

John knew not to panic. She was only fibbing. But the gun was on Sherlock's temple.

"That's a good boy," she said patronizingly, "So heavy for you, isn't it?"

"What's the point?" John tried his best to smile, "We're all gonna die anyway. There's a gas leak if you haven't noticed. Three of your people are locked in that room and any time, there's gonna be an explosion," he sniffed into the air, "And that's the tell tale smell, isn't it?"

John was trying his best to imitate a traditional pantomime villain, and was failing miserably. But the threat of his words were very real. The woman realised this as she sniffed in the air too. He thought he heard some scuffling in the corridor and his heartbeat quickened. Things happened so quickly that he lost focus.

"Interpol! Put your weapons down and your hands in the air where they're visible!"

Handcuffs were being slammed onto wrists, even on that of John's and Sherlock's until a man, probably DI Lestrade, yelled at them that the two kids were hostages, "Sher-boys!" John realised how much Greg resembled his father, "Are you alright?"

After John was free of the cuffs, he ran to his friend and without any thought, cradled his head, checking for damage, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. Luckily Sherlock had managed to shield some of the impact. John was breathing so fast and so hard that no words came out of his mouth.

"Come on, boys," the DI said kindly, "I'll take care of it."

Once they were out and the paramedics had tended to Sherlock, DI Lestrade's lecture began.

"How many times do I have to tell you, DO NOT GO INTO SUCH SITUATIONS ALONE, and now you drag some poor innocent soul along with you? Why didn't you call us sooner?"

Sherlock was avoiding John's eyes deliberately. _So he did call the police. Bastard!_ He should have known better.

"And you!" the DI turned to John, "You know how mad he is! Why did _you _not call?"

_No, I don't know how mad he is. I've just met him... today. _John shuddered at the revelation that he was about to kill a man for someone he had not even known for one whole day.

"You utter idiot! You do that again and I'll cut you off all the free cases I let you on."

Sherlock sniggered at him, "No you won't, because you need me."

Lestrade looked too annoyed to reply, but he did, "Yes, I might. But I don't need a bleeding kid putting his life in danger for it."

And for the umpteenth time, John's phone buzzed in his pocket. He gazed at the caller ID. _Shit! _It was almost one-and-half hours since he had last spoken to his mum.

"Yeah, I'm sorry I'm at Greg's house. He invited me over... no... you can speak to his father if you want..." He passed the phone to the DI who played the role of a jolly father quite efficiently while glaring daggers at both of them.

"Yes, Mrs. ... Greg is having quite a good time as well, " DI Lestrade was speaking very awkwardly, "... yeah they're all very happy... yes..." Seemingly reassured, John's mum cut the phone as the DI handed it back to him and walked away as someone called him.

"Now Sherlock," said he before going away, "This is the last time. If you ever try and get into such things, I'll have you locked up."

Sherlock looked as bored as always. It would have been quite an achievement, John mused, if only that were not his natural expression, "No need to mention this incident in your report, Detective Inspector. I'm sure you can cook up any story to illustrate how _efficient_ your department is."

"Yeah, shut up, smartass," he said fondly, "Don't teach me how to do my job. Now," he dug out a few notes from his pocket, "There ought to be a few cabs around in the main road-"

"Thank you Detective Inspector," John replied curtly, before Sherlock could say anything, "We can manage ourselves." Sherlock simply shook his head, thinking that they could've split the money. The DI gave both the boys an exasperated look and walked away with a small 'take care'. As soon as the DI was out of sight, John spoke, "So... you did call the police. Why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't lie to you," Sherlock threw away the orange blanket and started to walk away. John followed him, as usual.

"You said you didn't call the police."

"I said there was no time to call the police. I never said that I didn't call."

"Then why did you break into the flat?"

At that, Sherlock smiled mischievously, the one which made John's stomach do flip flops again "Well... I made the approach for Interpol easier, didn't I? They did not have to break the door in, the smugglers couldn't escape, and the woman..." he looked very ashamed of himself, "well, I misjudged that."

After a few moments, he added further, "Also, I was proving something for myself."

"What?"

"You."

John frowned, "Me?"

"You think I didn't know that they'd have a computer lock? I gave you every opportunity to flee, but you didn't."

His heart skipped a beat. So, Sherlock had decided to throw the two of them into danger just because he needed to test his loyalties? He really was insensitive, wasn't he? Sherlock looked quite pleased with himself. But then he seemed to be put out with something, "Were you really going to shoot that man?"

_Maybe not that insensitive. _John decided to let him have his own thoughts on that, "I might have. I might not have. So, what happened there?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, "Smugglers. They were torturing the man for information. I thought that the woman was in danger. But she turned out to be the boss. Quite a hot-headed boss, shouting away like that. And cool when she needed to be. What a waste of human resource!"

John nodded. He did not want to know any further than that, and neither did Sherlock say anything beyond it. Maybe he would ask him later. Because, now that the adrenaline was fading away, and John was returning to his former, nervous self, he started to stutter again. And that's when he decided that talking to Sherlock Holmes and walking with him at night was going to be very injurious to his mental and emotional wellbeing. He had to go, and his mum was tense anyway. Sherlock sensed his apprehension and thrust a few notes in John's hands.

John's hands tingled with anticipation as Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his wrist, "Take a cab and go home. _Mummy_ must be very tensed."

Sherlock Holmes could sometimes really be the put-off of the century. "Idiot," he remarked as he noticed how mockingly Sherlock had said 'mummy'.

And the awkwardness overtook him once again, "Err- see you tomorrow, I guess?"

Sherlock smiled a small smile and nodded, "Goodnight John."

After he got into the cab, John remembered that he hadn't thanked him for the cab money. Right on cue, John's mobile phone buzzed, not long enough for a call. _Text? Mum never texts._

It wasn't from his mum. **_Thank you for your help. SH_**

_How the hell did he get my number?_

**_Don't ask me how I got your number. The reply is never satisfactory. SH_**

John laughed to himself. Sherlock could be very... Sherlock.

**_Thanks for the cab money too :)_**

The reply was almost instantaneous.

**_Really, John? Emoticons? SH_**

And a big tit too.

**_Shut up._**

* * *

**I'm sorry if it seemed like the danger ended so easily for the dynamic duo. I have set myself a limit of 10 pages per chapter, and I was sorta exceeding it.**

**Next chapter: Lunch with Plastics.**


	5. Life With Plastics

**Hello again, everyone!**

**Last chapter did not exactly concur with "A Study In Pink". Apologies for that.**

**Hope you like it! xxx**

* * *

When John showered and sat down for a late night study after a light dinner, he remembered that he had to copy his notes from Sherlock's notebook.

He went through it. Everything was so disorganized, yet so understandable. Sherlock had catalogued every detail about any particular reaction: its mechanism, variations, catalysts that promoted it, poisons, even industrial uses.

_Genius!_

But the worst part was that it was an all-in-one notebook. There were his chemistry notes, extensive and exhaustive, then his biology notes, unsystematic but precise. And then came the bad ones. Physics was a bunch of formulae with small notes as to how they were derived. And just results in Math with no explanation. And then just few pages of an article in French and Spanish.

It looked like he had all the subjects under the sun. Like Mycroft. Seven subjects! John wondered how he managed it, and why he had seven where only five of them were useful. But he did not want to waste his time daydreaming about his childish crush on him. He could clearly see that Sherlock was sufficiently happy with solving crimes and hooking up with Jim Moriarty whenever he felt like.

* * *

"You ready?" Mycroft asked John before they were about to go into the lunchroom.

John sniggered, "Like I could say no and get something good out of it!"

Mycroft smirked at him, "Don't be smart, Johnny. I'm the smart one. And there's Greg, late as always." They spotted the brown and grey haired teen hurtling towards them, "Good luck John!"

They swept past him into the cafeteria. John followed a few minutes later, settling into the table with the Philip and Irene.

All throughout the lunch, John ate less and listened more to the useless set of rules that mostly Irene and sometimes Philip mentioned. They were sort of pointers on how they managed to be the talk of the school. John suddenly realised that he wasn't just going to sit with them for the rest of the week. He was going to have to sit with them for the rest of the year, because Irene seemed to be completely convinced that John was going to follow those rules. But then, it seemed like anyone would sell their house to sit with the Plastics.

That was, John noted absently, anyone except Mycroft and Greg, who seemed to hate Jim. He looked around at their table. Greg and some other guys were having a contest to see who could fit more popsicles into their mouth, while Mycroft tried to block out his best friend's activities, concentrating on his plate. It looked fun.

So far, John wasn't allowed to talk about animes (which was okay because he had no idea about what that was) or Star Wars or anything related to books. He wasn't allowed to go to a party without telling the rest of their faction, or go for shopping without them (which was okay because he wasn't into shopping; he decided to stick with Philip whenever he would be invited for such things). He wasn't allowed unimaginative abuse of words, as Jim put it. He wasn't allowed to wear something that Jim or Philip already owned. And if any of his clothing suited the other person better, he was supposed to ditch it because it was _their thing._

Lousy idiotic rules.

It was like he was signing a contract and those were the T&Cs.

And he was supposed to wear any T-shirt or jeans or jacket, or jumper in his case, only once a week. And then he was not supposed to wear the same set every week. They liked variety.

So, if John had to get on with his espionage plan, he would be needing lots and lots of clothes. Fortunately, Greg and Mycroft were of almost same physique as his, although Mycroft had a tummy and he was over six feet in height. Everything was perfect.

He wasn't allowed long hair, because if he did, they'd _banish _him to the table where the art geeks sat. He could not have specs, only contacts. And if he decided to get tattoos, it would be only with their permission and in their presence. John wondered why he would even think of getting a tattoo.

In order to settle the problem of the fourth rule, Irene and Philip actually made John recall every single tee that he had. It turned out that his fashion sense was very different from that of Jim's or Philip's and quite mortifying as well.

"You're so lucky to have us to guide you," Jim remarked lazily, "We're excusing you because you can't really be expected to learn about fashion in the jungles of Afghanistan. Don't worry, Johnny boy. We'll get you some dapper clothes. "

John wanted to tell him that there weren't that many jungles in Afghanistan, only flatlands and desert. He decided against it.

And he also wanted to tell him that his name was John, not Johnny boy. But he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"And if you break any of these rules, you can't sit with us for lunch. For a whole week," said Philip, in a manner that suggested that it would be the worst thing in the world that could happen to you.

He simply nodded, reaching out for some milk. Irene shot him a look that said _pay attention to me and our rules and not to food. _John recoiled under the ferocity of her glare.

"Oh, and we always vote before we ask someone to eat lunch with us because you have to be considerate of the rest of the group," she said.

John nodded, "Yeah, I saw that."

Irene smiled sweetly. She was good too. It was actually difficult to tell whether her smile was genuine or fake. Going by their reputation, John decided the latter.

Sherlock would have known, the one hell of a mind reading, omniscient and life-gambling sexy bastard that he was, John remembered fondly. And then he mentally slapped himself.

"So you know. Good. And you have to take our opinions very seriously. Like I said, every time we go out for shopping, we take the rest of the group with us and we vote for which looks the best on you. It's not always that you think that it looks good and it actually looks good."

John nodded, wondering if Irene took Jim and Philip to lingerie shopping as well. Could be possible. Anything was possible with the Plastics. Not that it should matter to her. John and Jim were both attracted to men, and Philip was her childhood friend, however perverted, as she informed him. In fact, a guy's opinion would be more unbiased.

Philip was simply nodding excitedly. He looked very happy to have a fourth member in the group. As painfully stupid as he was, Philip was actually nice and very innocent. He wondered how he ended up with Jim and Irene, if he was to take Mycroft and Greg's words.

"Same goes for potential boyfriends, or girlfriends in Philip and your case. Like, you may think you like someone but you could be wrong."

John quirked his eyebrow at that. He was never going to tell them about Sherlock Holmes.

"God, I really need a tan," Jim whined, "I don't like being sooooooooo white!"

He paused and looked in the direction of his plate. He looked like he was on some sort of diet, with the lack of food, but John pondered otherwise. Jim was not obese. He was the exact opposite of it. He did not need a diet. Yes, he was lacking in muscles, but his looks made up for it.

And then, he realised what to do when Jim said such things.

"Oh no, Jim," Irene quipped, "You look better without a tan. Everyone knows that, right John?"

John snapped out of his trance, "Oh yes, completely. You're the sort of person who needs to look sophisticated, not rough and hardy!"

Somehow, that seemed to please Jim, "Hmm... someone's a flatterer. You're soooo sweet."

John breathed a sigh of relief internally.

"Oh my god, Jim!" Philip almost squealed, "That's Sebastian Moran."

Irene looked over John's shoulder, a devilish smirk on her face. John turned to look at this Sebastian Moran. He was a tall, muscular blond. Handsome, he noted. _Not as handsome as Sherlock. _He earned himself another slap from his inner self. By the time John turned back to the table, Jim was gone without a goodbye. He turned again to watch him lead Sebastian away from the lunch room.

"So, John..." Philip asked him, smiling widely, "Have you seen any girls you want to get off with?"

"Err-" he noticed that Irene was watching him closely. All of them thought that he was straight. Let them think so, "Yea- there's a... girl-"

"You're fibbing," she said quickly, before he could even start to lie properly. John looked at them, from Philip to Irene. He was frowning, and Irene had the same devilish grin that was the signature of Jim Moriarty.

_Gosh, she's like a human lie detector! _ _Play it cool. Don't tell them about him._

"What?"

"It's alright John. You'll meet some of the good ones. No one in your class?"

That was safe as well. "Nope," John resorted to something he would never have done in a million years, "There can't be many girls who could be prettier than you!" Only flirting with her could get him out of the situation.

Irene smirked at that, "You think I'm _only_ pretty?"

John wondered if that was a lack of self-esteem or just another way to determine whether he was lying or maybe she was only mortified that John found her only pretty. But before he could answer, a rich baritone voice stopped him, "Irene. Anderson."

John could practically feel the heat rising in his cheeks as he sensed Sherlock's brilliant, piercing eyes drilling into him. He did not dare to look up at him. Fortunately, Irene had her attention on Sherlock and Philip was too stupid to notice.

"John?" came the unmistakably surprised voice of Sherlock Holmes. Too surprised.

Irene smiled up at Sherlock. _Now that was a fake one. _Even though there was no way to tell, John knew that it was. From what it seemed, Sebastian Moran and Jim were probably catching a quick round of snogging in some gym closet. And Sherlock, Jim's ex, coming to their table was super-awkward.

"Didn't know that you sat here."

"Yeah..." John stuttered, losing all the confidence he had gained yesterday as he cast his eye over him, "Er- I was... "

_Oh God,_ he growled to himself. But Irene saved him, "Hello Sherlock! Yes, we invited John over to sit at lunch with us. So, how was your summer after...?" she was looking at John suspiciously.

Sherlock sat beside Irene in Jim's empty seat, "Really? You _invited _someone? And that too John?" said he, avoiding the latter question.

_So that was when Jim and Sherlock broke up._

Irene quirked an eyebrow at him, "He's in your class?"

Sherlock gave him a quick look, "Chemistry. I accidently took his pen and as a result, he could not write his notes. Sorry for that again," he looked amused at John's sudden withdrawal.

John remembered it, "Right, here's your notebook."

"Yeah," she turned to John, giving Sherlock a playful nudge in his ribs, "He does that a lot."

Sherlock smiled as he dumped the book into his backpack, and John's brain deserted its job as the organ responsible for thinking. John desperately tried to hide the colour in his cheeks but Philip blurted out, "John, why're you so red?"

Irene tore her eyes away from Sherlock and focussed on John. Her eyes widened in surprise for an infinitesimally small moment and then they resumed smiling along with her lips.

Sherlock noticed John's discomfort and knew the only way in which he could take all the attention from him, "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole canteen."

_What? _ _Did he really just say that?_

The tension forgotten, Irene and John started to laugh. Even Phil joined in, not understanding that the comment was supposed to be offending. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head, sending John a look that he couldn't make sense of. To prevent himself from giving away anymore, John simply sipped his milk, looking down awkwardly, like a newlywed bride.

"Sherlock!" she slapped him on his arm, pretending to look scandalised, "Be nice!"

He flashed a smirk at them, "I'll be off now. Just popped in to say hello."

With a last glance at John, Sherlock removed himself from the table smoothly. Irene waited till he was out of earshot and turned to him in bewilderment. John knew and dreaded what was coming.

"No."

John refused to look down, knowing that it would only incriminate him.

"You can't like Sherlock Holmes!"

At this, Philip's ears picked up. "No," he agreed, "you cannot like Sherlock Holmes. That's Jim's ex-boyfriend."

"They went out for a year and then he was devastated when they broke up."

Philip turned to Irene in clear confusion, "I thought Jim dumped him for Sebastian Moran."

Irene shook her head, "Okay, regardless, ex-boyfriends are just off-limits to friends. And that's not just our rule; it's the rules of the universe."

John had a lot of friends in Afghanistan. But all of them were too busy trying to survive rather than even think about girlfriends or boyfriends. "But don't worry," Irene voice dropped down an octave, "you couldn't have known that. And that's why we won't tell Jim. Your secret is safe with me." Philip nodded vigorously, apparently very happy that he had been given a secret to keep.

Well, it hardly would be if Sherlock and Jim happened to come around together. Any fool could see it. Just as Sherlock exited, Jim arrived again, "Oh, by the way people, there's going to be a fire drill in, uh..." he checked his watch, "two seconds-"

The fire alarm went off. All the students around them rushed outside, leaving John alone with the Plastics in the huge cafeteria, free to do whatever they wanted to do. Before John could say anything, Jim interrupted, "I told Coach Gregson we had to skip it because Irene might be pregnant."

Irene looked extremely shocked, "You said that?" But Jim ignored her. Phil laughed, and then it seemed like something had hit him on the head, "She's not though, right?"

Coach Gregson manned the door and waved at Jim enthusiastically, as if it is the best thing he has done in his life. Jim waved back daintily.

"So adooooorable, isn't he?"

John smiled to himself. He could see why it was good to have Jim as a friend.

* * *

When John finally got to chemistry class that day, he was hoping for Sherlock to come and sit beside him once again. Sherlock did not seem to have a lot of friends, because whenever John saw him in corridors, he was usually alone, either carrying his boxing kit or a lot of books in his arms and hurrying towards the library. But what disturbed John the most was the loads of shy girls behind him, mostly freshmen who did not know about his sexual orientation.

First five minutes, John was alone, hoping for Sherlock to turn up. Ten minutes, fifteen...

Bell rang after another twenty five minutes. No sign of Sherlock. John sighed in disappointment.

* * *

He did not dare to walk home with Greg. Or, Greg did not dare to walk home with him. He was too afraid that the Plastics would see them and then the whole plan would come down crashing.

"See you tomorrow," he waved to Greg and proceeded to take a shorter route. He would have, had he not heard the sing-song voice of Jim, "Get in doofus, we're going shopping!"

John turned around. And that was one sexy convertible.

"Okay," it did not seem like he had any other option.

Philip smiled up at him as he settled beside him, "We're getting some suits for Jim. I haven't been to suit shopping for ages."

John simply nodded. He had never thought of Philip as be one of those guys who liked shopping. Jim was posh, it was obvious that he would. But what he had got from the rom-coms that his mum watched, guys were supposed to hate shopping. Apparently, that was not true.

"John," he looked up to see Jim smirking at him from the rear view mirror, "Do you know what car this is?"

Only one came to his mind, "Cadillac?" he tried.

Jim laughed as Irene rolled her eyes at John, keeping her eyes fixed on the road while driving, "I love him," said he, "he's like a blank slate!" John did nothing to hide his embarrassment, not when there were two very clever people sitting in the front seat and watching at his facial expressions.

It was getting awkward, spying on them. Although Greg and Mycroft tried their best to convince John that Jim was an evil and a wicked dictator (according to Mycroft, wicked was worse than evil), John did not really believe it. Jim was... awesome. He was fabulous, and the funniest person he had ever met in his life. Although some of his jokes were obscene and were targeted at Irene, he seemed like a great guy.

"Did you even go for shopping in Afghanistan?" asked Philip.

"Sometimes a guy in a truck would come selling computer parts and guns..." John answered, thinking, "does that count?"

All of them laughed. They seemed happy to keep John as their pet, "Here we are," said Jim, his eyes searching, "House of Fraser, Austin Reed... yes, Westwood..."

It seemed like Jim had some formal party sort of thing and he needed a new suit, and being plastic, he needed all of their advice. He took this as an opportunity to educate John about how to pick the perfect suit for oneself. Not that John could see much difference between any of the suits that Jim had tried. All of them were black and taken in at the waist, flattering his lean body.

And then they went for ties. That was the most uninteresting thing he had ever done. Jim made small talk with the owner of the shop, who seemed to know Jim like he was their regular customer. Most of the time, Irene fussed over him, taking out ties after ties, her face contorted with concentration. What was the point of this, John mulled over in his head, it was not like anybody was going to touch it to see what quality it was!

"So," John asked conversationally, "What's the occasion?"

Jim looked at him and smiled benignly, "Oh, Johnny! Don't worry, I'm not going to a party. It's more like a meeting, a formal thing, too boring for someone as colourful as you! And Irene dear," he continues in a lower voice, "please drag Phil away from the venerable old manager. I don't think he can digest so much stupidity."

It was like Irene was his full-time PA. John smiled and frowned at the same time. Jim could be mean, but he was awesome.

When John realised that this was going to take some time, he quickly went outside and made a call to his mum, informing her that he would be late. She seemed delighted that the prospect of her Johnny boy socialising without much effort. It couldn't take much effort. John was always a people person. John looked around at his surroundings. They were somewhere in Knightsbridge. He had never been to this part of London before. But then, he was new after all.

It seemed that Irene had some shopping to do as well. And, as expected, it took longer than Jim had taken. She finally settled for a short black silk dress and another chiffon blue one. The price made John tear his eyes away from her to the much marginally dressed salesgirl who seemed to be complimenting every dress that Irene had taken a shine to. Then, they just sat in Starbucks, sipping frappuccinos, with Jim occasionally sending out texts and Irene chatting up with John and Phil.

"So John," Jim turned to the group once he was finished with the texting, "How do you like Westhaven till now?"

"It's alright, I guess. I'm sitting for BBO this year, so I'll have to study a lot."

Jim nodded, giving him a cute pout upon hearing that Westhaven was only 'alright', "B for... biology. Some Olympiad?"

"Yep," he said brightly, "Ms. Hooper put my name for it."

"Make sure you don't ignore us," Irene batted her eyelashes at him, "We're only your friends in this school."

John thought about his two other friends who were planning havoc on them this very moment. He simply smiled. He found out that if he was getting rather good with fake smiles. "Course."

"Oh God! They're looking for me," Philip squeaked out, making all of them jump. He looked scared to death.

"What is it, Phil?" Irene asked soothingly.

"Baseball pricks, "he pointed at a direction over Jim's shoulders and crouched under the table. There were five boys, all very strongly built.

"And what did you do?" she continued in the same voice.

"Just slept with Alexis, I swear."

"Adrian's girlfriend?"

She seemed to know everything. Mycroft was so right.

Philip nodded, "It was a onetime thing, I swear."

Jim, whose eyes had been closed at the moment, fluttered open. He was smiling mischievously, "You remember that photo you took, Irene? During that party in Turner's house, of Alexis and that pathetic ex of hers, what was his name?"

"Right, it was Jeremy, I think. Hiding isn't a permanent solution. I'll send that photo to the whole lot. Phil, this is the last time I'm saving your neck. After this, I'll be the one to make sure that you get a good beating from them. I keep these photos for insurance, not to keep you safe."

Jim winked at John and settled back into those uncomfortable chairs. John caught one glimpse of the MMS Irene was sending to all of them. It was an obscene picture of a half nude girl and a full nude guy, violently making out inside a cupboard. Only God knew how she had got that photograph. John averted his eyes away at once and turned in the direction of the baseball boys to see all of them reach for their phones, and gasp in delight except for two of them. A fight broke out, and they smuggled Phil out of there.

* * *

Back in the car, he was laughing gleefully. This was the first shocking glimpse that John had into their mean personalities. True, they had saved Phil. But he was the wrongdoer, wasn't he? And sending an old photo of a girl hooking up with her ex to not just her current boyfriend, but to the whole team was a very mean thing to do. John tried to laugh it off with the rest, but he couldn't reconcile the incident in his mind with Jim's natural charming persona. Perhaps Mycroft and Greg had been right all along.

They were going to Irene's house. John let the unsettling thoughts in his mind rest for a while as he spotted Belgravia approaching. Was that where she lived? She was crazy rich indeed.

"Your house is really nice!"

"Isn't it?" she smiled pleasantly, "Now, John, if you see my mum's boyfriend anywhere in the house, don't grace him with even a look. That's the only rule here."

John nodded stiffly, looking around the house in wonder. Phil and Jim looked unfazed, like they were used to it. Right then, a woman appeared in the hall who could only be Irene's mother.

"Hello darlings, how're you all? Hello, Philip, Jim, absolutely love that watch."

He put on the same face he had on when they were at the store, "Mrs. Adler, this is John."

She finally turned to him, "Oh, hello dear!" said she flirtatiously, as John tried to back away from her approaching fingers, "You are so DDG... Now, if you need anything, don't be shy. There are no rules in this house, darling."

John swallowed uncomfortably, "Er... yes, thank you.. Mrs. Adler. You're... very, erm... DDG too," said he, still not knowing what it meant. He vowed to ask Greg and Mycroft about it whenever he met them.

"Diana, please," said she in a voice so deep that John thought he could bury a body in it, "Thank you, dear-" she winked at him and then grabbed his shoulders to give him a hug. John winced quietly at the feeling of her rock-hard boobs. He could feel her giving him a kiss on his cheeks. He tried his best to stay still as Mrs. Adler continued to take advantage of him.

"Mom!" Irene finally came to his rescue, "It's first day and you've already started to molest John!"

"Oh sweetheart," said she as she withdrew, "Stop calling me mum now! You know how people faint upon hearing that I'm not your big sister."

Irene rolled her eyes, "Please stop talking."

They went upstairs to her room. It was neat, bordering on obsessive... and didn't look used at all. She threw her purse on her bed and switched on the TV. Philip played with her lab pup and Jim just stood by the windows, looking out at the street. Meanwhile, John looked around, never failing to be mesmerised.

"This is your room?"

"Yup," she took off her slippers, "You should see my mum's. Smells so much better when Dad's there. At least it doesn't stink of sex all the time... Oh my god, it's the Paris fashion week!"

When John was with the Plastics, he felt like he had left the actual world and entered another world. All that glamour and riches, everyone would be in your control and everything worked in your favour. He turned around to look at what Jim was doing.

"What's that?" he asked him, looking at the large album in his hands.

Before Jim could say anything, Phil interrupted, "It's our _Burn Book_. We've been keeping it since last year. Once, Irene had her phone stolen and we lost a lot of data. Since then, we've been keeping this."

"Well then, why don't you take a backup?"

"They need to be original, of course," he told John, proud of the fact that he knew something, something that perhaps Jim or Irene had explained to him "Plus, backups can be hacked easily. Otherwise there's no point. In Photoshopped ones, if you go to the details of an image, you'll never get a camera-model name or number. It's something that cannot be added by the user-"

"Oh, I remember this one," Jim said quickly, interrupting him, "Michael Byrd and Ms. Smith. Remind me to send her a nice text. She's been such a pain."

John did not try to pry anymore as they announced a load of names from their year and some of their teachers as well. If they were to completely trust him, he had to act like he liked making fun of it and not anything much.

"You should write something in it!" Phil announced, giving the Burn Book to John.

"Yeah," Jim agreed, "You do one. We might have a picture of someone here in the... Irene darling, please bring me the yearbook!"

John looked appalled. It was his second day, how was he supposed to write something bad about someone. He strictly refused, "No!"

Meanwhile, Irene was back with the yearbook, browsing through it for pictures, "No one will ever find out!"

"How can I hate someone right from the second day?"

"Anybody," Jim shrugged his shoulders, "Someone really stupid... like Philip!" Phil looked downtrodden at that, but Jim didn't even care.

"But I don't want to."

Irene's eyes narrowed, but a shadow of a smile still remained on her lips, "Why, because you're so nice, and we're so evil?" She asked him pointedly, pouting her lower lip. John looked around at the three of them, waiting expectantly for an answer. Reluctantly, John took the Burn Book in his hands and spotted Principal Stamford somewhere in the group photo. He made a quote bubble over him, saying, "I keep ecstasy with me in my office." Irene snatched it away to read it.

" 'I keep ecstasy with me in my office!' That's hilarious!"

Jim's eyes lit up at that, "Is it true, John? My God, you're my best friend!"

With that, Jim pulled John into a very dainty hug, while making his face into something that said 'Gross!', something that John couldn't see. He wondered what was happening, thinking whether he should have done that. But nevertheless, he patted Jim's back awkwardly, thinking about what to tell Mycroft and Greg.


	6. The Bank Heist

**"The Plan" continues. John spies on the Plastics and keeps an eye on Jim Moriarty, and also tries his best to teach Sherlock how to respect people. And Moriarty claims to have known his little secret.**

**Case Fic intro ends with a murder in the next chapter, with bits of friendly and fighting Johnlock in between.**

* * *

"And there's this Burn Book," John reported back to Mycroft obediently, "they have all sorts of things in there. Mean things and scandals about most of the students in the school, and probably much more!"

John, Greg and Mycroft had decided that if they had to meet, it would be at Greg's place or at John's. Mycroft did not talk much about his family, except for the occasional mention of 'Mummy', so John and Greg decided not to push their luck.

"It's all there in Irene's phone. Phil knows only a little bit and I tried to smuggle stuff about them out of him. But Jim and Irene are very careful... they always watch him and make sure that he doesn't talk much."

Mycroft rested his chin on his palms. They were in Greg's room, where John was telling them about his day with the Plastics. It had been tiring and very pointless, but Greg had been very excited by the idea that they had been to Knightsbridge, and Mycroft had looked appalled at his feverish excitement.

"John, you have to steal that book," Greg blurted out.

"What? No! I can't spy on them anymore. It's getting weird-"

"Come on, bub. We could publish it. Then everyone would see how mean they really are!"

"No, Greg. We can't do that," Mycroft muttered, "People would hate you more for publishing all the scandals. And besides, John said that there was nothing to indicate that it belongs to Irene. You will be getting yourself into trouble if you do anything of that sort. No, John, you said that there could be something else... for insurance. If Jim Moriarty is to be exposed, we have to go through the other Plastics. And you'll have to keep hanging out with them."

"BBO's in December, hardly five months remaining. I'll require a lot of time for studying. You can't expect me to go for shopping and hang out with them whenever they feel like."

"Do you know, John?" Mycroft looked like he was about to start with a fairy tale, which he did, "Last year, one of our seniors got expelled. He was wrongly accused of using drugs and supplying them to some freshers. We all know that he was nothing like that, very serious and studious. The only thing a few of us believe is that he had overheard Moriarty and Mr. Stamford discussing about something that he never even told anyone. That's what James Moriarty can do-"

"All the more reason I don't want to mess with him," said he, looking away from their imploring eyes.

"John," Greg shook his head and spoke slowly, "There are two kinds of evil people in the world-"

"Yeah, I know that crap. And I'm not- I'm just saying- there's nothing in there for us. Screwing Jim Moriarty's life wouldn't get us anywhere-"

"Yeah- but think of all those peeps whose life won't get screwed up because of him. You told us that he was going to drop by Ms. Smith's. Probably mess up her life as well."

"Well, she made out with one of her students. It was wrong on her part as well-"

"Yeah, that was a bad example but just think, John! And Jim won't ever find out, it'll be like our little secret!"

He looked down, wondering why he even said yes to mainstream-schooling, "Okay, fine. But as soon as I feel that it is becoming a burden, I'll quit. And no changing my mind after that."

* * *

John's life in Westhaven was quite smooth. He found out that he was able to balance his studies, his social life and Sherlock Holmes admirably. He was forced to hang outside of the school with the Plastics at least twice a week. Sherlock had called him on only one other case. Although it wasn't the sort of case where he needed an accomplice like John, nevertheless he had called upon him. John knew that he could fool himself by thinking that all this was a deep-seated cover for the desire for John's company, but he knew better. Although he couldn't deny the sparks that were there, he knew from observing Sherlock's behaviour that the aforementioned 'sparks' would be there _only _when Sherlock needed his help or companionship, and would be practically absent in all other situations.

John sometimes felt that Sherlock had a hunch about John's attraction towards him and that he used it to his advantage. Obviously because Sherlock Holmes knew everything, and John's crush was painfully obvious.

* * *

The next big thing happened two weeks later. John had just returned from a football match and was about to go in for a shower when his phone rang.

"I know your secret," came a soft Irish voice from the other end of the line.

John's heart rate shot up exponentially at that.

_Oh God, busted! Okay, tell him that you meant no harm and that Greg and Mycroft had forced you into it. No, no! No, play it cool! Deny everything._

"What secret?" John managed to keep his voice steady but puzzled and a little curious at the same time.

"Irene told me that you like Sherlock Holmes," he paused, deliberately giving him time to prepare himself for the news. John did not respond to that. He knew that every word that he said would be against him.

"It's okay, I don't mind," Jim sounded reassuring, "No one can help it after all. But let me tell you something about Sherlock Holmes. All he cares about is his books, his experiments and his own after-school life that he never tells anybody."

_Wrong. Sherlock told me that he wanted to be a detective on a freelance basis and that he solves crimes that the Scotland Yard had deemed impossible._

"Right."

"But I could talk to him for you... if you want."

_Was Jim giving him permission to..._

"Really? You would do that?" came John's hopeful reply, "I mean, nothing embarrassing though, right?"

John could practically hear Jim smirking over the phone, "Oh no, Johnny dear! I know exactly how to play it. Trust me."

John felt so blissfully happy at that.

"But wait. Are you so mad at Irene for telling me your secret?"

John frowned, thinking that he should have expected something similar from Irene, "No not really-"

"Because if you are, you can tell me. It was very wrong on her part to tell me something like that. I mean what if she had told this to someone else!"

John cocked his head to his left side at that, "Yeah, I guess it was a bit not good. But, she can't help it, she is just so immature-"

"See Irene darling," Jim crowed before John could even finish, "I told you. Johnny's not mad at you."

_Irene? Where did she come from?_

"I can't believe that you think that I'm immature!" came the shrill version of the cool and calm voice of Irene.

"Nighty night, Johnny," came Jim's voice, "see ya tomorrow. Don't let the bedbugs bite!" And the line went dead. Although John now understood what this could mean, only one thing remained in his head. He could hang out with Sherlock Holmes now.

And with Jim's blessing, he would not have to restrain his conversations with Sherlock anymore. He could talk with him. He was allowed to like him. Things were finally changing for the better.

* * *

When Sherlock arrived inside Room C, he found the seat next to John empty. He smiled inwardly and plonked down gracelessly into the chair and stared at the blackboard, as if trying to pierce it with his gaze. He was aware that John was watching him out of the corner of his eyes. Somehow, that thought made him feel giddy with anticipation.

"Hey," came a hoarse voice from someone beside him. Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the blond boy.

"Good morning," he replied and resumed his scrutiny of the board, as if something really interesting was going on there.

"Got any new cases?" John's weak voice reached his ears.

"No."

An annoying buzz was filling Sherlock's head, something that threatened not to leave unless he occupied his head with something, anything. He looked down at his Chemistry textbook, useless as ever. He knew everything in there. He looked around the class in all places, wherever John wasn't there. He decided to give in, "I would have had if that idiot Lestrade would allow me on the Capital and Counties bank heist case."

His heart gave an odd flutter as he watched John smile at the word 'idiot'.

"You think everyone's an idiot?"

"Yes."

"Including me?" there was a small uncertainty in John's voice, one he had heard only when he had a gun pointed to his head.

Sherlock recalled that night. He still hadn't forgiven himself for placing John in danger like that, "You're a lesser idiot." _And you're not everyone._

John's smile grew wider, as if he was amused by the conversation, "But I am an idiot, according to you."

Sherlock looked away, "There. You said it," and he decided to bestow him with a wink. He really enjoyed making people uncomfortable and blushing around him. John wasn't an exception.

After a few minutes, John resumed conversation that was more to Sherlock's liking, "So... you're following up the -er- case?"

"No. Apparently DI Lestrade has described me to every PC and told all of them that I am an annoying reporter from a broke newspaper firm who's always looking for sensational news. So, I'm effectively banned from crime scenes."

Mr. Saunders started teaching them about the products of Perkin reaction. Sherlock and John were hidden very well from his view by a massive boy sitting in front of them. Seeing that they were quite safe from his wrath, Sherlock decided to continue talking to him, "And sadly, newspaper reports are woefully inaccurate. But I've managed to put together a rough picture from whatever I've researched about it. Seems like a delightful and refreshing case."

Sherlock noticed the gleam in John's eyes as he spoke, "Well then, will you... do you want to... tell me about- it?"

_Stuttering. How adorable! So afraid to offend me with the wrong words._

"Sure."

All through the Chemistry class, Sherlock told John about the group of professional robbers who had undertaken the successful heist in the London Branch of the Capital and Counties Bank, stealing gold worth 30 million pounds without pointing a single gun.

"They consist of a safecracker who also specialises in alarm systems, a gunman, a driver and a conman who used to be an extremely skilled stage artist. That means he's quite good with disguises and with being the perfect Mr. Charming. They are virtually untouchable. Their last performance was somewhere in Belarus and they escaped right under from the nose of the police. Their next target could be anywhere. It all depends on their highest bidder."

"Bidder?"

"Yes. They are sort of a freelance organisation. They take the job of the highest bidder, demand a twenty to thirty percent commission for their job and all the expenses, and get it done. The one time they failed was in Antwerp City Diamond Center vault. But they got away, nonetheless. They've got a sort of protector. They could never be convicted because of substantial lack of evidence."

Sherlock found himself subconsciously watching John wetting his lips. He gave himself a mental shake and pretended to write mini notes as Mr. Saunders roamed around the class.

"Then... how do you know that they've done it?"

"They leave their signature. How else would they advertise for themselves every time they hit the success counter?"

John nodded, trying to understand the situation, "Okay, so what happened?"

"This is what I've gathered from the newspapers and I have no idea which is true and which is not. Two months ago, a Mr. Leonard Hoffman, who introduced himself as a gems trader based in South Africa, rented a safe-deposit box in the bank. He was very charming, very friendly as he wormed his way into the trust of all the bank employees.

"Now, whenever you want to get to your deposit box in any bank, there's usually a guard who accompanies you in there. Hoffman's case was different. He visited his deposit box so often that the security personnel became quite accustomed to his frequent visits and let him in anyway. All he had to do was to flash his holder card at the camera. The only way in which they monitored him inside was with the help of CCTV feeds, which was rendered useless as the cameras were found to be wrapped with black paper after the heist."

"Wait a second, are you saying that his deposit box and the safes that contained the gold were in the same room? How's that possible?"

"Major security lapse, I know. They trusted their technological defenses too much. But no one knew that the gold existed. It had been lying there for years. It was borrowed by the British Government from BNP Paribas bank in the eighties, thirty six million Euros worth in gold at present value of the currency."

John nodded to show that he caught on.

"On 13th September, the day of the incident, Hoffman came as usual in the morning, stayed in there for fifteen minutes and left, no questions asked. He was cheerful as ever, no change in demeanour. Now, the day was a Saturday and banks have half-working days on Saturdays and are closed on Sundays, so a pretty good chance of escape for the robbers over the weekend.

"Now, I'll tell you about the security system down there. It's very good, they've got all sorts of alarms. The door to the antechamber of the vaults is able to withstand 8 hours of continuous drilling. Further, any sort of drilling attempt would trigger off the seismic alarm anyway... It's sort of a motion detector," he added, noticing John's vacant expression.

"Yeah, I got that."

They quickly hastened to their notebooks when they noticed Mr. Saunders a couple of desks away. Sherlock turned to John, eyeing him hesitantly, "John, um, do you... want to come with me? I could use some help."

John's eyebrows shot up at that, "What, now?"

"No, don't be absurd! Not now. I'll text you. I know that the Detective Inspector will come running to me in a few hours. After all, it's been four days since the incident."

John smiled reassuringly and nodded, sending a strange warm feeling running through Sherlock, "Yeah, I'd... love to."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the blackboard. There was a strange thing he had been feeling since the last few days. Usually, it was easy, and frankly, natural for him to be able to manipulate people for favours and then detach himself from them. James was an exception. He was not just 'people'.

But the strange thing was that when he was with John, he did not have any reason to be bored. And he found it incredibly difficult to detach himself from the five feet seven blond boy with those bloody imploring deep blue eyes.

A possibility came to Sherlock's head, something he discarded as soon as it was conceived. Liking John Watson? But he was so ordinary.

Although there were very defining character traits in him that suggested otherwise, and that kept surprising him all the time. For instance, no one had ever said that his deductions were amazing. And he had not expected the quiet, docile mama's boy to get off on danger. Sherlock had never expected the flicker of hunger beneath the good boy facade, the fire in those eyes when he had a revolver in his hands. A proper, grade A adrenaline junkie.

Not so ordinary.

"Thank you," said he, his gaze still fixed on the board.

He could feel John's eyes linger over him for more than a moment. Body was betraying him. Attraction was one of those thing that had never been under control. He looked at John's tanned hand sitting across the table and he felt his own twitch uncontrollably. The only way in which he could suppress some very inappropriate urges was to talk about the matter at hand. But his mouth had become very inconveniently dry.

John was the one to resume conversation, "You aren't writing any notes."

Sherlock looked down at the blank pages of his book, "Amazing, John! Could you teach me how to make such subtle observations?"

He frowned, upon which Sherlock thought that John hadn't understood his sarcasm.

"That was sarcasm."

"I KNOW THAT! Jesus, Sherlock! But why aren't you writing any notes? Do you know that this stuff isn't in the textbook?"

"Yup," he said, popping the p, "But I know all this."

John's eyes narrowed, "You're joking. You know all of this?"

"And more. Chemistry is the only sensible thing out of whatever we learn in high school."

"Then-?"

Sherlock turned to his side as John trailed off, "Then what?"

"Why did you write notes that day? On the first day?" said he, with an expression of genuine bafflement on his face.

That was the most difficult question Sherlock had ever been asked. As difficult as the question that Mycroft had asked him when he had decided to continue with 10th grade Chemistry instead of taking 12th grade ones like Mycroft did. Not that the reason was related to John anyway... He convinced himself that it was because it didn't make any difference to him, because he knew it all, no matter which class he was in.

"Don't know," said he, looking away in the direction of the classroom door, "Can't remember." He could hear John gritting his teeth.

He was indeed, "God. I feel like such an idiot now!"

And before Sherlock could stop himself, he turned to him with a casual smirk on his face and exclaimed, "Haven't you got acclimatised to it yet? I'm surprised!"

John's eyes narrowed, "Oh, I'm sorry that I'm more of an idiot than Sherlock Holmes! You know what, you can go to hell for all I care!" And with that, he shifted his desk away from him noisily and focussed his full attention on Mr. Saunders.

_What happened there?_

The bell rang and John dumped his books into his bag without looking in Sherlock's direction even once, which was a good thing because Sherlock had his imploring puppy dog eyes on. That plan failed as well when John walked out of there.

Sherlock belatedly realised that he had done something that was a bit not good.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock's phone beeped with a message that sent excitement running through his veins.

**_Coming to you for the heist case in 20 min. Lestrade_**

_Yay!_

But John wasn't speaking to him.

Sherlock had tried every desperate move. He had followed John around for two minutes after the end of the school, something he would never have done under normal circumstances. But he had simply ignored him and waved in the direction opposite to him. Sherlock had to make himself scarce when he noticed James and Irene waving back, with big grins on their faces, grins that Sherlock knew were fake.

Sherlock had sent him at least three sorry (although not very explicitly worded) texts and seven more that were somehow targeted at John's biggest weakness. Sherlock knew that John wanted another case, and he had seemed very hopeful when he asked him about the newest one. But John hadn't replied to even a single one. It was almost as if he had stopped acknowledging Sherlock's presence.

The annoying buzzing had taken over again. Sherlock took out a cigarette and waited for Lestrade impatiently behind the alley that led to Bart's. He considered texting John again, and then voted against it. John had made his position quite clear. But whenever Sherlock recalled how effective John had proved during that first case, he considered it again.

In another couple minutes, a cab showed up and Lestrade walked out of it, as inconspicuously as possible. Sometimes, he went to great lengths to preserve Sherlock's anonymity. He was, if not anything else, grateful to the DI's common sense upon having taken a cab instead of marking the spot conveniently with police lights.

"Yeah?"

"Been four days," he shrugged, "You won't be allowed inside the vault but I can supply you with the evidence."

Sherlock gritted his teeth in annoyance, "And pray tell me what good will it do? Your _highly specialised_ team will have missed out all the obvious clues, hmm?"

"What are you suggesting then?"

"Let me in," Sherlock couldn't help but marvel at his stupidity, "Simple as that!"

"Sherlock! You know that all this is classified information and I'm breaking all sorts of rules by letting you in."

"Clearly you've never seen me in an appropriate disguise."

Lestrade frowned, "What do you mean?"

Sherlock smirked as a daring plan formed in his head, "I'll need your police car. I can manage the disguise."

* * *

John parked his bike and started towards his school when he was cornered by a tall beefy policeman, with chunks of fat threatening to protrude out of his uniform. John stared at him in undisguised alarm.

"Hey, kid! Whatcha think you doin' parkin' your bike there?"

John frowned and looked at the spot, "Why, what's wrong?"

"That no-parkin' spot, son. I need you ter come ter the station wimme."

"What? Why?" John started, alarmed.

"You been parkin' 'ere for a month. You think I gonna let you go?"

"It's not mentioned in here or anything," John protested.

"Yeah, an' sun goes round the earth. That's general knowledge. But is it written there? Don' try an' fool me kiddo. I've met loads like you an' I know how ter handle 'em. You come wimme this instant!"

After John was almost dragged to the police car and Sherlock had locked the doors so that John couldn't escape, the grumpy voice of DI Lestrade arrested him, "Sherlock! Is this why you wanted to bring the police car around?"

"Sh-what?"

John was super dumb. Even after putting on an American accent, he couldn't figure out how a man with a distinctive American accent was in the London Police Force. Sherlock had made _special provisions_ for him to see through his disguise, but John...

Instead, he stared in disbelief as Sherlock's face suddenly lost all the flabbiness to it. He took off the police cap, and lots of fluffy cotton stuffed in the uniform and smiled toothily at both of them, "Not completely, Lestrade," his voice became the same deep baritone instead of the mellow American accent he had put on especially for John, "We'll need a car, won't we-?"

"Let me out of here," John's quiet voice came from Sherlock's side.

Lestrade reached out to unlock the doors when Sherlock interrupted, "No, please John. Come with me-"

"No! You need to start giving people some respect, Sherlock. Until then, you can play Mr. Adventure all by yourself."

"When did I disrespect anyone?"

"Oh really?! Mr. ... DI Lestrade, if you would please."

"Don't ask me," he raised his hands up in the air in defeat, "He can be incredibly idiotic sometimes."

Sherlock looked from John to Lestrade, both of them conspiring against him together.

_Is he cross with me just because I said that he was an idiot?_

"Are you cross with me just because I said that you were an idiot-?"

"It's not about calling people idiot, Sherlock! Oh god, you are phenomenally stupid. Sir," he turned to Lestrade, "could you please let me out?"

"Jooohn!"

"Stop _Jooohning _me! And don't ever try and kidnap me again!"

Meanwhile, he discovered that Lestrade had unlocked the doors. He turned the hinge and slipped out of the car, careful enough to not let Sherlock see the small smile that had crept up on his face. He had never really been cross with Sherlock, but he didn't need to know that, did he?

* * *

There were no words in the dictionary to describe how incredibly boring John's day at Westhaven had been, more so because he kept wondering how different his day would have been had he spent it with Sherlock. Sherlock was right. He was an idiot to have decided to go on this ridiculous case-strike just to make Sherlock learn some manners, something that couldn't happen at all. It was a lost cause.

But John had not really expected Sherlock to react so magnificently. He had showered him with attention, had bribed him with cases that John knew weren't real because he had developed this weird habit of reading criminal news every morning and he knew which ones had really happened and which ones hadn't.

Now it had become too much. Now, Sherlock was surely going to stop talking with him because he hadn't known when to stop sulking like a five-year-old.

He imagined Sherlock's lithe figure kneeling down on the floor with a hand lens and a pen and a pocketbook, ready to jot down anything of interest. No one knew how much watching Sherlock work turned him on. He recalled the last case. John had simply stood there and listened to Sherlock's thoughts and conclusions about the murder victim. He had no idea how his presence was supposed to supplement Sherlock's mental powers as he had claimed, but then, he was Sherlock.

During the lunch, the Plastics argued only about which was a better brand: Westwood or Paul Smith. Jim was all for Westwood, while Irene and Philip took the other one. John tried to hide his face, not participating actively in the conversation. No one seemed to pay any attention to him as they remained engrossed in their arguments. John excused himself from their table before lunch ended, complaining about severe stomach ache and skipped his next class.

**_Am I still allowed in the bank heist case?_**

The answer, as usual, was instantaneous. **_Outside_** **_Angelo's. 3:30 pm. SH_**

John was more than grateful that Sherlock had not decided to give up on him.


	7. I Trust You

**Congratulations to me. I worked out a murder in a respectable bank heist case... but that was rather the point =)**

* * *

Dead at 3:30, John turned around to see Sherlock standing behind him.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You scared-"

John could recognise him only by his eyes and his cheekbones. The rest, he didn't look like he was Sherlock Holmes.

He turned around and started walking away from John. Perplexed, he decided to follow him, like always. After sometime, Sherlock entered a building through a backdoor, leaving John behind to contemplate whether he was going to follow him into it when a text arrived.

**_Hurry up. SH_**

John sneaked into the building and plunged behind the tall lithe figure clad in a hoodie and track pants. He followed Sherlock into a small noisy room, perhaps the ventilation chamber of the building. Sherlock sat down, took off the hoodie and dabbed his face with a damp cloth.

With those disguises, he could have easily been an undercover agent.

_Genius, _John thought to himself when he saw that the hoodie was reversible with a bright red on one side and the pale blue on another. He looked down at the pale boy staring up at him and a powerful desire to kiss him swept through him.

"You... undercover?"

Sherlock merely nodded, looking everywhere else. John thought about starting on his apology.

But before he could start, Sherlock opened his mouth awkwardly to start on his, "John... um... "

John shook his head and sat down on the floor, wanting to laugh at the way Sherlock was trying to apologize. He let his eyes wander on the shadows on his otherwise unblemished face for a minute. He was no longer attempting to conceal his attraction. Sherlock seemed to have understood and cleared his throat to bring John back to earth.

"Ah- yes- ahem... it's not that, Sherlock. Do you treat everyone like this?"

The taller boy looked around, as if he was the one who was new to the place, "Maybe. I don't really pay attention to conversations with idiots. I've got Lestrade on semi permanent mute-"

John let out an exaggerated sigh, "There it is again. Anyway, I'm not mad at you... but it was really cute seeing you _Jooohning _your way in," he flashed a mischievous smirk at his friend.

Sherlock's mouth fell open and he closed it back, biting the insides of his cheek in annoyance, "Well played, Mr. Watson," he said through gritted teeth.

John gave him a short bow before firing his next question, "Why are we here?"

At that, Sherlock reached out for the pocket of his track pants and handed John a pencam and his mobile phone after unlocking it and showing him pictures of what seemed like the insides of the vault of the bank, "Study them, and tell me what you see."

"That's a pencam."

Sherlock frowned, "Perfectly sound. But I was talking about studying the photographs instead, not the camera."

_He'll never learn, will he?_ "Why a pencam?"

"Photography is strictly prohibited in there. Although I was dressed as a policeman, they said that they could not allow any more photographers to roam around there. Idiots! Anyway, Study them and tell me what you see while I get myself into some respectable clothes."

John understood his words belatedly as Sherlock opened a side door and slipped into the adjoining room. He swallowed and turned in the opposite direction although he couldn't see Sherlock anyway. The thought of being within ten feet of a half-nude and a very vulnerable Sherlock Holmes left him with a raging boner.

He swallowed and concentrated on the memories of his annoying sister. It almost helped. Almost.

He peered at the screen, drifting through the endless number of photographs Sherlock had taken. The first one was of the safes which stood open. Nothing unusual. Then came the photos of the ingenious methods the robbers had used to bypass the security systems. Every succeeding one left John more and more awed at their imagination.

"The system wasn't hacked," Sherlock's voice floated over from the other room, "They know that hacking can be traced, howsoever effective it may be."

"And what stuff is this, they've got to enter codes into these number pads, don't they?"

"That's what I'm saying," Sherlock opened the door, looking fresh and spotless as always, but this time in a casual shirt and jeans, but at least not like the desperate homeless fella from a couple of minutes ago, "they did not have to worry about them."

"How?"

"Those number pads are needed to disable the alarms. Since they had already found their way around, they hardly needed to do that. It was not like the door wouldn't open without it. But that's hardly important. We need to recover the gold before it reaches the intended hands."

John frowned, "We?"

"Yes. They are one kilo each gold bars with an image of a pentagram on them. I've secured some of the supply from a merchant-"

"WHAT?"

"Why do you think I was undercover? There's nothing to be gained from the crime scene, save the facts that the all the men except the conman, that is, the safecracker and the gunman were above six in height and 8 and 10 sizes in shoes. The safecracker had a poor left eye-"

"Hold on," John held the door open for Sherlock as an unconscious gesture, "I thought that the police had their descriptions."

"No they don't. They usually don't meet their clients so there are no descriptions available even if a spy were to go and meet them. Anyway, safecracker had a poor left eye and was a regular smoker... or at least a consumer of tobacco in some form. He's Italian, the pencil shavings showed that."

"Pencil shavings?" John's eyebrows shot up in admiration, "You mean that he actually sat there and cracked open hundred and eight safes singlehandedly instead of drilling his way in?"

Sherlock smiled, "I know, it's amazing. Some of the safes had those new generation alarms which send a text to the keeper when drilled through them. Seemed like they didn't want to take the risk. I've never heard of someone as fast as him. It took him four hours to do so. So, I had Lestrade check with the Italian police. There were no records of any such man, but they're spreading the word around.

"Now, the gunman. He was mostly security for the safecracker and the one who disposed off any evidence and of course, helped with loading the loot. That's the way they work. Driver waits a few blocks away in a stolen taxi with a usually fake license plate, no one pays attention. Conman waits along with him, communicating with the two men inside. But since they were stealing gold this time, they needed Hoffman inside as well. Police have Hoffman's photographs from the CCTV footage of the bank."

"How d'you know they use cabs all the time?" John hadn't realised that they were still walking through the streets of greater London.

"I know the tyre dimensions of an average London cab. Lestrade brought in the report from the Chicago police, from Minsk police, their last targets, and from Diamond Squad in Antwerp. Same results there as well."

"So, what's next?"

"At this point of time, someone must be doing a background check on me. They'll never find anything suspicious by the name of Shezza."

"Shezza?" John snorted.

"I told you, I was undercover!" Sherlock insisted.

"Seriously, Shezza though?"

"Anyway," Sherlock decided to ignore John's teasing, "As it always is, I was right. They have a protector, untouchable to law. He's the one who organizes all the meetings and auctions and orders those background checks."

"Okay."

"You want to hear something better?"

"Like?"

"You remember our first case?"

_Course I bloody remember it! I was holding a gun, for God's sake! _"Yeah?"

"Those smugglers were also under his protection. They escaped yesterday, and the operation was probably orchestrated by him."

His lower jaw fell open, "What? That's your idea of 'something better'?!"

"Lestrade's offering me every sort of police protection," said he, ignoring John, "but I think that they might get to you first, John. They remember you better."

John suddenly looked around him, trying to find any familiar faces of those smugglers. Somehow, the idea of being at the pinpoint of the wrath of an avenging smugglers gang made his breath hitch deliciously, not out of panic, but out of a twisted sense of excitement. He glanced at Sherlock, who was surveying the place with intense concentration.

"That's okay, I can take...," nod, "care of it..." John stared down at his trainers and then at Sherlock's shiny shoes. Standing near him sometimes felt very out of place.

"No," he growled, "I shouldn't have taken you with me that day. I made a mistake-"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John snapped at him, "I'm not going to argue with you in the middle of a busy street... " John thought about the words about to come out of his mouth, "If you can take care of yourself, so can I. I was brought up in Afghanistan, for God's sake!"

"John, but-"

"No. Let's just focus on what we have here. You don't need to worry about my safety."

Sherlock looked genuinely worried, making John feel a sickly guilty sensation in the pit of his stomach, "Seriously, Sherlock! My dad was a Lieutenant Commander-!"

"Exactly! **Was **a Lieutenant Commander. He's retired, John-!"

"You've got smugglers on your track too, Sherlock! You were the one trying to outsmart them, not me. I'll be alright, just... do this fancy robbers case please?"

The deadpan look was back on Sherlock's face as he pointed at a distance, "I have an appointment with a pawnbroker in Oxford Street."

"Appointment? With a pawnbroker?"

"Yes, he owes me. I -ahem- helped him out a few years ago."

"Oh, did you get him off a murder charge as well?"

John struggled hard to fight off the blush forming on his cheeks as he watched Sherlock's signature smirk growing on his face, with a hint of amusement. The sort that said _I was expecting that, _"No. I helped him move into his newest location. Taxi!"

That man surprised him to no end.

* * *

"Mr. Montgomery!" Sherlock called out, "Basil here!"

"Basil?" John whispered, puzzled.

"Another one of my aliases," he revealed.

John let out an exaggerated sigh, "First Shezza and now Basil. I've seriously got to teach you how to think names!"

"Yeah, like Hamish is a very nice one... Good evening, Mr. Montgomery," Sherlock put on one of the most cheerful facades John had ever seen in his life.

"Ah, Basil!" the elderly man shook his hand with equal fervour, "How're you, my dear boy?"

"Very well, thank you. Mr. Montgomery, this is..." Sherlock trailed off, unable to give John a name.

"James," John uttered the first name that popped into his head. Mr. Montgomery seemed to buy it and shook his hands enthusiastically as well.

"Hello James!" he turned back to Sherlock, "Three people came to me yesterday. They tried to sell me the same merchandise you told me about."

"Tried to?"

"They'll be coming back today. Eight thirty-ish. I told them that I'll keep half the cash ready by then. Same one kilo bricks with a pentagram on top of them."

"Right, you sell five of them to me tomorrow nine-fifteen in the morning. And how's your wife now?"

Fortunately, Mr. Montgomery couldn't spot John's baffled expression as Sherlock made small talk with the pawnbroker. He couldn't help but think how the scene in front of him resembled the one he had been in some weeks ago during suit and tie shopping.

"Oh gosh," Sherlock continued in a high voice, "I forgot it. I have a present for little Rich."

_Little Rich?_

Sherlock drew out his pencam and handed it to him, "Tell him never to leave his spy novels," he winked at the elderly man.

"Pen and spy novels?"

"You're too old, dear Mr. Montgomery. He'll get it. Goodbye." With that, Sherlock strode out of the shop with John following closely behind.

"Any... explanations, Sherlock? Why would someone come to Mr. Montgomery to sell gold bricks?"

He smiled wickedly, looking much like Mycroft, "Mr. Montgomery isn't some ordinary pawnbroker. He's what we call the middleman in such transactions. Well, retired middleman. Very hush-hush about everything and very useful to me in such cases. He thinks I'm just another buyer."

"Buyer? How're you going to arrange for all that cash- Oh! You've told DI Lestrade haven't you?"

"Not a word. He wouldn't let me do anything like that. He thinks I'm his son or something."

"Well, you're almost Greg's age, aren't you? Anyway, how do _you_ know Mr. Montgomery?"

Sherlock visibly stiffened, "I told you, I helped him move in."

John nodded, "Oh, so you spotted the old man having difficulty with the heavy boxes and decided to play good Samaritan?"

"I'll get back to Mr. Montgomery tomorrow," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't asked him any question, "Right now, I need to go to the Yard. Taxi!"

* * *

After one and a half hours, John found himself sitting with Sherlock on a bench in a park, sipping cold coffee. He had declared that there was nothing more that he could do for that day. DI Lestrade had given John an exasperated look when Sherlock had finished with transferring all the footage into a pen drive and a silent warning to the latter to not come traipsing around in NSY whenever he felt like.

"I didn't know you were so good with disguises."

Sherlock turned to look at him. _You don't know lots about me._ His eyes traced the path of the single rivulet of sweat running down John's tanned face, "I just get into the character," he replied dismissively.

"No.. I mean yes... even though I was peering at your face, I could hardly recognise you."

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight," he chanted.

A pause for a few moments. "So... you and Greg, huh?" John figured that this was the only time when he could get Sherlock to open up about himself.

"What about us?" he frowned.

"I don't know... I remember you saying that you like watching him play soccer," John suddenly realised how dumb he sounded.

Sherlock nodded, frowning to himself, "Actually... I used to wonder how an idiot could have a more idiotic offspring, but that shouldn't come across as surprising, I suppose."

"Sherlock!"

He rolled his eyes, smiling impishly, "You know what I mean, John. I'm only joking."

"Greg's my friend," John let it drop. He had been forced into a life of secrets. He had to keep his friendship with Greg and Mycroft a secret from everybody. He had to keep his time with Sherlock Holmes a secret from everybody. He had to keep Sherlock's secret from everybody. And he also had to keep his sexuality a secret from most people, including his parents, "and Mycroft too."

He trusted him. He knew that somewhere deep within, Sherlock hated keeping his secret from everyone and depriving himself of the appreciation of his genius. He knew that he would be burdening Sherlock with secrets of his own to keep. But Sherlock did not seem to mind in the slightest; instead, he simply nodded, attempting to process this new information, "I thought Lestrade was the only one capable of staying with my painful brother."

That was not the reply John had been expecting, "You guys are cousins, right?"

"We stay in the same house. Somewhat intermediate between cousins and brothers, according to most people anyway... So, Lestrade's trying to get back at James now? And I assume he told you not to tell anyone."

John could swear that Sherlock was the only person who called him 'James'.

"Yeah. But that doesn't mean that I'm not friends with Jim. He seems like a nice guy."

Seeing as Sherlock determinedly avoided commenting on John's last sentence, which sounded more like a suggestion than a statement, he added further, "You know what happened?"

Sherlock nodded, "Yes, but I think you should hear it from Lestrade himself. Or unless someone voluntarily tells you."

John nodded. He had a vague idea who that person might be.

"By the way," he continued, "I'm friends with James and Irene, much older than I'm with you. I might tell them."

John looked at him, trying to judge what he was trying to mean, "You could."

"Then why tell me?"

John smiled at how readily the answer rose to his lips, "You won't."

"You're sure about that?"

"One hundred percent. I trust you."

No one had ever said those words to Sherlock Holmes. Since childhood, he had been looked upon with suspicion, like he was a monster ready to tear everything apart. He had attempted to channelize his excess energy into boxing and athletics. And his family had completely given up on him when he had been found face-down in a ditch, overdosed and close to death, and when the doctors had revealed that he had been on drugs since a couple of months. Sherlock couldn't be trusted with anything.

Unfortunately, that brilliant mind of his meant that rehab was useless. They had no choice but to move to another place, somewhere where Sherlock's parents believed that no one knew about his drug habit. So, they moved him to Westhaven, where Sherlock could start his life over again. He had been burdened with seven subjects just so he could keep his mind off... things. And then John Watson said those words so easily without a second thought about who Sherlock really was and what his past was. So easily and so honest. Sherlock felt so overwhelmed as he looked down at John's small tanned hand holding the coffee and wished if there had been his hand instead.

Any other person would have asked about what was wrong with Sherlock and Mycroft being brothers and even would have tried to preach something about familial sentiment. But John left it at that.

Even James had never said that to him. Although, why would he? He found the protests of his mind dwindling rapidly in volume, "You do?" his voice came out, almost choked.

John chuckled quietly at that, as if trusting Sherlock Holmes were the most natural thing in the world, "You said that the sun goes around the earth."

Sherlock was completely derailed from the ongoing thought-processes in his head, "Sorry what?"

"Today morning, in the guise of that policeman with that horrible accent. You said that the sun goes around the earth and that it's general knowledge."

"So?" Sherlock realised he had said something inaccurate and his tone became defensive automatically, "What are you trying to say?"

John gave out a laugh, "Are you serious?! Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"

"So what if I don't know?"

John's eyebrows were in the danger of disappearing in his hair, "How d-? ... this is primary school stuff. How can you not know it?"

"It doesn't matter. I must have deleted it."

"Doesn't... okay!" John smiled and raised his hands midway in the air, "Not judging you at all," he looked at his watch, and groaned almost inaudibly, "Er- sorry Sherlock, I'll have to go. My mum gets really worried-"

Sherlock stood up abruptly and whispered, "Goodnight John," _see you tomorrow._

John stood watching Sherlock's black silhouette wading through the streets of London, before deciding to get back to his own humble abode.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock decided to text John before he set off.

**_School or case? SH_**

The reply was fast, like it was kept readymade.

**_Case. Where to meet?_**

**_That same office building. SH_**

John did not want to ask from where Sherlock had got the cash required for the bricks when he spotted a black backpack on him. All Sherlock said was that it contained the second half of the total amount of money he was required to pay. He wouldn't be surprised if someday he got to know that Sherlock had been arrested for having stolen the amount from his parents' bank account. He knew the great lengths to which his friend could go to get to the bottom of the matters concerning the case.

When they reached at Mr. Montgomery's on Oxford Street, they were met with an unpleasant surprise. Usually, the pawnbroker was very quick with his responses to any customers and especially to Basil. Sherlock, suspecting something very wrong, crept into the shop with John at his heels stealthily.

They had come across Mr. Montgomery, shot in the head and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.

* * *

**More action to follow. I'll get back to the main story after two chapters, because... well, there's no other scenario that portrays their (John and Sherlock's) dynamic best :)**


	8. Adventures Of Two Stupid Musketeers: I

**"Right, so you're gonna audition people? Hey, we're hiring red-haired midgets to play the role of an informant about gold and stuff! " John mimicked Sherlock's voice very inaccurately, "Wanna audition? Yeah sure, why not, do I get to use a gun? Not really, but you'll have the whole police force behind you, and as a bonus, you get to keep the bulletproof jackets too! Great, just the sort of thing I was looking for, I'm an out of work actor! That's what you're gonna tell them, Sherlock?"**

**Sherlock and John track the group of robbers via the death of Mr. Montgomery. Casefic continues.**

* * *

**Hello again, everyone!**

**I honestly don't know how I wormed a murder into a respectable bank heist case :'(**

**More 'Sherlock being Sherlock' ahead.**

**This might be a longish chapter. My chapters seem to get longer and longer.**

**Forgive me if John seems too assertive. I love my** Watson** like that ;)**

* * *

This time, John turned a blind eye to Sherlock's demands. He swiftly dialled 999 before Sherlock realised what he was doing.

"Noooooooo!" he cried out, almost instantly regretting bringing John with him. He lost it and launched himself on John, trying to wrench the phone out of his hands.

"GIVE ME THE GODDAMNED PHONE, JOHN!"

"999. What's your emergency?" came the female voice of the operator from the other end of the line, much to his dismay.

"I've..." wheeze, "found a... body here... stop it Sher- idiot!... in Oxford Street... ," John replied, struggling against Sherlock's obvious attempts to asphyxiate him.

"Please stay calm, don't panic," the voice continued, oblivious to the knowledge that it wasn't panic that made John's voice on the phone sound like that, "Now, I need you to check for a pulse."

If the situation weren't so desperate, John would have died of a heart attack while even thinking that Sherlock Holmes was on top of him, although kicking and thrashing.

"He's... dead. Shot... in the-holy mother of-head...!"

"Stay where you are. And don't panic! We are coming. Is there anyone with you?"

"Yeah," he looked at the jumpy agonized teenager on top of him, "Me an' my... friend!"

After John got off the phone, Sherlock looked like he was about to strangle him to death. As if he had not tried doing that just moments ago.

"What?" he coughed irritably, "that's what," cough-cough, "you're supposed to do, Sherlock! Oh, you mad man, you almost killed me there!" He contemplated throwing a punch at his face, and then stopped thinking as Sherlock rolled his eyes, and drew out his own phone, muttering something incoherent that suspiciously sounded like 'idiot'.

Well, that was original(!) "What are you doing?" John ran his fingers over the sensitive skin on his neck to feel the bruise forming due to Sherlock's almost successful attempts to suffocate him to death.

"Calling Lestrade, obviously. I don't want any other DI to stomp around here and do a shoddy work of the case. This is obviously... Lestrade!" Sherlock abruptly switched to the man on the other side of the line, "We've found a body in Oxford Street... No! Just FOUND it!... Yes, we. John's with me. Look, get yourself here before the 999 people instead of badgering me with silly questions, alright?"

And before the DI could say anything else, he cut off the phone. John could swear that he had heard sniggering on the other side of the line, accompanied by words like, "'Bout time your goldfish drilled some sense into you."

John had no idea what DI Lestrade meant by 'goldfish'. He had probably misheard him.

As Sherlock turned back to the body in front of them, John was thrown into a trance at the gleam and the excitement in his eyes. It did not matter to him that this was a person he knew. All he thought was that there was a man lying dead in front of them and that he had an opportunity to show off his acute mental faculties. The merriment would have been infectious had there not been a dead Mr. Montgomery lying there. John wondered if Sherlock would go about with the same level of enthusiasm if he ever got the opportunity to investigate John's death.

With a jolt, he recalled how Sherlock himself had tried to kill him with his bare hands a few moments ago. At that point, John shuddered when his partially-oxygen-deprived brain reminded him that Sherlock was a boxer. Somehow, his actions reminded John of a junkie in desperate want (or more appropriately, need) of drugs. He mentally shook his head vigorously, as if that had the power to drive such uninviting thoughts away.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Why would they kill him?"

"Who?" he said absentmindedly.

"Why, those robbers, of course! Or their agents-"

Sherlock stood up so abruptly that John almost staggered off his feet.

"Brilliant, John! Please teach me how you arrived at that conclusion _without examining a single piece of evidence_."

"It's very obvious," Sherlock's sarcastic comment backfired on him, "They were going to come at eight thirty in the night the previous day, wer-?" he stopped as he noticed Sherlock's half-amused, half-exasperated face.

"Sarcasm, John? S-A-R-C-A-S-M? Ever heard of it?"

John felt like the silliest person on the entire planet, Philip Anderson forgotten.

"Sorry," he murmured, "carry on."

"We have eight minutes to ourselves before any of the 999 or Lestrade's party arrives. I need you to work fast."

John nodded, wondering what sort of work he was going to have to do-

"NO!" Sherlock cried out in dismay, "I hate these robbers!" and suddenly, he switched to a man in awe of their actions.

"What happened now?"

"There used to be a camera in this corner of the room," he pointed to the ceiling, "I remember having praised Mr. Montgomery for his precautions. He shot at it and took it away with him."

"He? Not them?"

"Course not. Two men won't come for hardly five gold bricks! As for he, obviously a woman won't come carrying five kilos of gold all by herself!"

John saw the two small bullet holes, almost invisible, in that section, but it did not look like there had been a camera there. But Sherlock knew better, of course. He looked like he had known the pawnbroker for ages.

"Why shoot at it and then take it with him? The camera must have become useless as soon as it was mutilated."

"Quite so. Why indeed? They wanted to hide their identities. He shot the camera and then tried to eliminate its existence. Why? It must not have recorded anything. Even if it did, it went to the.." Sherlock turned around to face the PC lying on the desk, surrounded by all the ruckus and a very telling cleared space, "... hard drive gone," he muttered under his breath, but switched it on anyway.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"A computer cannot run without a hard drive."

Sherlock smirked at him, "The key to solving this mystery is remembering that this was Mr. Montgomery they were dealing with."

John had a hunch that the august old "pawnbroker" was more than what meets the eye.

"Don't underestimate him, John. You'll find out soon that it can."

"What?"

"In 80s, systems were booted from floppy disks. You have no idea what this man used to be. And neither do I, not entirely anyway. There was a power cut in London yesterday. You remember, John? Earth Hour or Green Hour something to conserve electricity. It happened between 9 and 10 yesterday. He came eight thirty-ish and left within half an hour at the most. The computer switched off the instant the power went off..."

"Earth hour, right."

"Now this must have happened halfway their visit and only before he had shot the man. Yes, before he had shot Mr. Montgomery. The man snaps, shoots at the CCTV camera, points his gun at Montgomery. Lights out, along with the screen. Montgomery knows that his game's up, takes advantage of the situation and takes out the flash drive and stuffs it into his pocket discreetly. Shooter kills him, checks for hard drive, unable to start the system because lights are out, takes it for granted that the recorded footage was deleted because of power off. And as an extra precaution, searches for the hard drive, finds none and takes away the camera so that the police don't have a clue..."

John was flabbergasted. Sherlock's succinct description of the events of the previous night had instigated a sort of a short movie inside his head, playing the whole scene with unrealistic clarity.

"...except," he grinned widely at John, "He forgot that he was dealing with Charles Francis Montgomery."

"How do you know about the duration?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's just nine now, John. Body is dead for over 12 hours."

John assumed that Sherlock simply knew how to date dead bodies. He did not want to go into any sort of grotesque details about that. But, unlike Sherlock's predictions, the system failed to boot. That did not depress his spirits in any way, "Forgot the flash drive, " Sherlock went to the dead man and inserted his fingers into his right trouser pocket, "The OS is in here. Very unimaginative of the shooter," he said smugly, glancing at John, whose mouth hung open in wonder as the machine accepted it and loaded all the files required for booting.

"Linux! See!" he continued excitedly, "Linux allows you the possibility to work without the hard drive," followed almost immediately with a groan.

"What is it?" John rushed over to see that the screen was asking for a password.

John had a vague idea about what was coming.

"No... you possibly can't..."

Sherlock threw him the strangest look in the universe, "Of course, I can. Mr. Montgomery..." Sherlock started his monologue, "loved his grandchildren, especially Rich. Very devoted to his family... but yet, he was clever enough to anticipate that anyone wanting to get access to this computer would naturally think of something relating to his family... Personal heroes? He still likes Captain America series... ," he rushed to the small office, the only place which was personalised in the whole store, and dived into the countless subscriptions of Marvel comics, "... No, no, no! Montgomery was clever but shockingly conventional. Never relied on technology. Cameras were last resort. Sentimental but not the sort of man who would associate his password with something he liked or was fond of. He's got maps. Lots and lots of maps, and," Sherlock dumped himself on the chair and looked around at the small circular room, then stood up and groaned in disappointment, "He was clever... that ought to simplify matters, won't it? He would choose something that no one would ever think of."

"Something he did over and over again... maybe something that people generally seemed to dismiss?" John suggested weakly, thinking of his dad's password, "Something particular only to him-?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock snapped, interrupting him, "Something like that would be too commonplace to not notice!"

John stared at Sherlock like a sad puppy, unhappy that Sherlock had discarded his idea so easily. But then, like he kept telling himself, he was Sherlock.

"WAIT!" he suddenly cried out in exhilaration, giving John the very real threat of a premature heart attack. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, "Exactly! Something that would be _too _commonplace to notice. You are AMAZING! You are fantastic!..."

John's heart swelled with warmth and pride as he heard his friend say those words to him. He knew that that was as close to appreciation as he could get from Sherlock. Until...

"... You may not be the most luminous of people, but as a CONDUCTOR OF LIGHT, you're unbeatable!"

"Cheers," and there turned his pride into dust ,"What?"

"Some people aren't geniuses but they have an amazing ability to stimulate it in other people! Yes... he kept on saying a phrase... very intimately associated with him-"

So much for appreciation!

_Everything is planned, my dear boy... _it all came to Sherlock's head.

_There are no coincidences, Basil. It's all pre-planned. I have seen something of the world and I can tell you that for sure..._

_Everything is planned..._

_Everything is planned..._

"Everything is planned," Sherlock turned to John with triumph clearly written on his face.

"Sorry, what?"

"He kept saying this over and over again... I'll be damned if this isn't his password! Spaces excluded, of course," he almost ran to the machine as he heard the siren of a police car. Lestrade had arrived first.

He typed in the password, just as DI Lestrade's heavy footfall sounded in the entrance.

"Just five minutes, Detective Inspector!" he called out loudly, as the welcome tune from the computer reached his ears.

However poor his delivery of appreciation could be, it was the best feeling in the world to be clutched by Sherlock Holmes, his warm hands tethering John to him. But nothing could compare with the exhilaration John had felt that he had actually played a vital role towards solving the case more quickly.

"Get out of here, boys!" he said sternly.

Sherlock paid no attention to him. And John understood what Sherlock meant by helping him out as quickly as did not know that helping Sherlock involved doing the talking part, "Just five minutes, Mr. DI," John pleaded with him, ready to do anything to help Sherlock again, "He's looking for the footage from yesterday."

Sherlock hissed loudly, sounding very annoyed. John belatedly realised that he shouldn't have said that.

"You know this guy?" the DI's eyes widened and his voice dropped to a whisper, "Sherlock knows about this guy?"

John looked helplessly at his friend, who was currently engrossed in the contents of the device, waiting and praying for his _Eureka! _moment. And it came right on cue, "Yes!" he cried out, "I love - ahem..." he stopped himself from saying too much in front of the suspicious DI.

"Sherlock?" he began in a low and a very cautious tone, "Is this related to the heist in some way?"

The footage that started playing was enough to shut all of them up. John and DI Lestrade rushed to his side and huddled together. None of them looked up to see the PCs get to work and secure the perimeter.

"That's the footage from last night," he drawled, "and yes, Detective Inspector, this murder is _very _intimately linked with the heist."

Sherlock fast forwarded the clip till they spotted a man with a backpack, clad in a black leather jacket, navy blue tee and torn grunge jeans enter the store. Mr. Montgomery stood up, looking jovial enough, but the twitching fingers hidden behind and the gun inside the half closed drawer revealed how nervous he was.

" '... you have the bricks?' " he asked in a jolly voice.

" 'Seven of 'em,' " the man's voice was hoarse with a distinctive Scots accent, " 'Hurry up with the cash, grandpa! I gotta go.' "

" 'Yeah easy, alright? I want to check whether the bird's genuine.' "

" 'Yeah sure, do your thing.' "

Mr. Montgomery switched on a UV lamp and took out the bricks one by one, cherishing the feel of the cool metal against his fingers. They were the exact same ones that Sherlock had described to John, rectangular bricks with the image of a pentagram on them. Although, John knew that because he knew that they were supposed to have that very image on them. To an average human eye, it was virtually invisible.

The man seemed to grow tenser, " 'What the fuck are ya checking for?' "

Mr. Montgomery smiled nonchalantly, " 'Nothing, my good man. I-' "

" 'You seem to know more about my goods than I do, huh?' " suddenly he grabbed the old man and dumped him in the ground, with his face contorting into the cruellest expression John had ever seen on any human face.

"There," Sherlock pointed at the screen, as a sergeant strode over to DI Lestrade with a reproaching look at the odd group huddled by the desktop, "He's taking out the money."

John did not understand why Sherlock had to look so triumphant about that. He turned his attention back to the monitor.

" 'What do you know about it, huh?' " he demanded.

" 'Nothing, I swear to god!' "

" 'You swear to god? You lying wanker! Tell me, or I'll decorate that wall with the insides of your head!' "

The DI's eyes remained practically glued to the screen as the man drew out a handgun and pointed at him.

" 'I swear to God!' "the old man cried pitiably, " 'I just heard a rumour!' "

The man's eyes narrowed as he lowered the gun, " 'What rumour?' "

" 'Some bloke came around, saying that he wanted _those_ bricks. Only those.' "

John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him. " 'What bloke? What rumour?' "

" 'Look just take the cash an' go!' ", he pleaded, " 'I'll pretend that this never happened!' "

The man gave a blood-curdling high pitched, maniacal laughter, " 'Oh, mighty Charles Montgomery will _pretend that this never happened! _Yeah, sure! But, I'll take the gold as my commission.' "

" 'Just bugger off!' "

There was a soft sound of scuffling as John turned to see the forensics guys set down to work.

" 'First, you tell me what rumour it is.' "

" 'You'll kill me anyway.' "

He shook his head, " 'Oh no, no. That might not be necessary if your information is... _good_ enough.' "

Mr. Montgomery thrust the bag in the man's direction, " 'There's half the cash here. Rest of it, I'll give it to you tomorrow evening. I'm a little tight here.' "

" 'Just tell me the shit about it!' "

" 'Look, I don't know whether this is true... just a rumour about a load of French gold sitting in the London branch of Capital and Counties Bank with the image of a pentagram on top of all the bricks. I was only checking-' "

" 'No, you were checking whether these are those bricks so that you can fucking give me over to the cops-' "

" 'I'm not calling no cops, son. I've been doing this for over forty years!' "

" 'This bloke give you the rumour? What's he look like?' "

John could feel Sherlock holding his breath waiting for the inevitable, waiting for the old pawnbroker to tell the man about Basil.

" 'Short, midget sort of. Black shark like eyes. Red hair.' "

John had to get a thorough check-up of his ears. _Why would he lie?_

The taller man crinkled his face as he tried to remember such a person, " 'Don't you dare lie to me!' "

He simply smiled, " 'Why would I lie to you? Look, if you want him, you can come in the afternoon. He's supposed to meet me at two tomorrow to collect the bricks.' "

The man took out all the cash and dumped it inside his own bag and was just about to reach out for the gold bricks when he saw Mr. Montgomery's fingers sliding towards the drawer. On instinct, he pressed the cool metal of the hand gun against his forehead. " 'Get away!' " he pulled it open to see the handgun lying there.

" 'YOU SON OF A-!' "

He threw the man into the chair as Mr. Montgomery lay there, cursed by old age and stiff limbs, staring wide eyed with terror at the shooter. He turned to the DI and the teenagers, pointed his gun at them from within the screen and the monitor went black.

"I've been a blithering idiot!" Sherlock jumped up from his seat, took out his phone, fingers rapidly flying across the screen, "If only I had checked whether the money was gone-!"

"Money!?" DI almost shouted, "That was- what the hell? Be frank with me, otherwise this is the last case you'll be working upon!"

"Yeah, yeah, alright! I'll be _frank _with you! You surely recognise those bricks, don't you?"

"Yeah, same ones that got stolen."

"Correct," he turned to John, "Remember, I had told you that I had arranged for a meagre portion to be sold to me. Now what I did was stuff all those notes with transmitters. Ta da!" he displayed the screen to them, "And we can track them. All of them."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock tried his best not to flush with pleasure, "And I will have caught you many others as well, Lestrade. Starting with the shooter who'll drop here around two o' clock, thanks to Charles Montgomery."

"Wait, we have the whole lot of PCs outside," the DI exclaimed, "I don't think he'll want to come wandering around here anymore."

Sherlock gave him a playful smirk, "You're an idiot, Lestrade! He won't _come_ here. He'll look out for some red-haired midget," his line of sight met that of John's. And suddenly, John, who was very self-conscious of his short height, cried out.

"I'm NOT a midget!"

The DI and Sherlock burst into very ill-timed giggles, averting their eyes from John's accusing ones. All the police people stopped and watched the odd pair laughing while they were mere feet away from a dead body. As heart-warming as the sight of Sherlock's natural laugh could be, at this moment-

"Of course not," the Di cleared his throat very loudly, "Rude! I'm not letting you do anything of that sort. He's a kid!"

"Hey, I'm not a kid!" John was genuinely tired of his friends calling him 'Johnny boy', his parents continuously pampering him and Sherlock behaving like he was his commander or something.

"I never said that you were a kid OR a midget. We'll just have to get someone to work in disguise, won't we?"

Sherlock said those words so invitingly that it made John want to thank his Creator for the first time for making him so short, "I'll do it."

"You're not a midget, as you pointed out at volume," Sherlock continued very innocently, eliciting some more silent giggles from the DI.

"Yes, but I'll do it."

"No," the DI suddenly realised what an odd sight they made for the rest of the team there, standing and arguing with a couple of mad teenagers instead if cataloguing clues and running inquiries. He dragged both the boys outside by their collars, "No, John, are you out of your mind? These are high-profile robbers. An entire organisation! You don't want to mess with them!"

"Yeah, and you guys are the police-!"

"No, John," Sherlock, too, looked very troubled at the fact that John was suggesting grabbing tons of disguise and transforming himself into a red-haired midget and put himself into danger again, "You're doing nothing of that kind-"

"Shut up! YOU were the one trying to lure me into going for pretentious cases with you by hinting _subtly _that there was danger involved-"

"I'd like a word with John alone, Detective Inspector!" Sherlock announced loudly, and almost dragged John away from there into a more secluded spot.

"Are you mad, John?" Sherlock shook him by his shoulders roughly.

He sniggered at him, "Says the one who's mad."

"Don't be an idiot-" Sherlock was right when he understood that John virtually forgot about his crush on the taller teen during such situations. He wished he didn't. He wished for John to listen to him, instead of diving headfirst into jeopardy.

"And there it is again! Sherlock, you don't understand_, _the whole police force would be behind me, ensuring my safety..."

Sherlock's heart melted at John's painful gullibility. His brows creased and he looked down sadly at his loyal, trusting friend...

"... at least it's not like I'm gonna get shot-" he began jokingly, trying to lighten the mood with the wrong choice of words.

John had probably gone mad with the Plastics, Sherlock inferred. He was actually offering himself up on a plate to get shot for a case, just for the sake of solving it!

"-in the leg, or die-Ow, Sherlock!"

Sherlock hadn't realised that his grip on John's shoulders had become agonizingly firm. John looked up into his eyes and felt the most painful bout of guilt to see his friend's face contorted into the most excruciating of appearances, like he was going through hell on the inside just by thinking about John getting shot. Not a good thing to joke about, John noted.

He had a vague idea that Sherlock would not be very pleased to investigate his death.

And he had a very strong feeling that he had just made his resolute of not sending John skipping away into playing undercover agent very, very strong.

"-You're hurting me."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled softly, looking away and retracting his hands back, leaving cold air to attack the soft material of John's shirt and his skin underneath, "Look, you're not the only midge - short person in the world. I'm sure we'll find another," the impassive facade was back on his face. Sherlock was thankful that John did not notice the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"Right, so you're gonna audition people? _Hey, we're hiring red-haired midgets to play the role of an informant about gold and stuff! _" John mimicked Sherlock's voice very inaccurately,_ "Wanna audition? Yeah sure, why not, do I get to use a gun? Not really, but you'll have the whole police force behind you, and as a bonus, you get to keep the bulletproof jackets too! Great, just the sort of thing I was looking for, I'm an out of work actor! _That's what you're gonna tell them, Sherlock?_"_

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled at the incredulity of the idea, "Why do you want to do this so much, John?"

"I just want to. I'll be safe," he tried a weak smile, "I promise."

Sherlock relented. After all, John had _promised_ him, "But first we need to get you a proper disguise."

* * *

By half past one, John had flaming red hair, a courtesy of Sherlock's make up kit. Black contacts were placed on blue ones, with a little bit of punk jewellery. Sherlock had his stash kept in the garret of an abandoned office building, giving him easy access to his disguises.

"Why d'you keep all this anyway?"

"How do you think I know London so well? I put on a mask and wander around. No one recognises me. Once Mycroft managed to, and then the whole house was in uproar."

"Gosh, you're... I mean..." John trailed off, losing himself once more. He couldn't keep track of how many times the desire to grab Sherlock by the collar of his jacket and kiss him senseless had swept across his mind.

"Ahem-ahem".

John crash-landed back to reality and glanced at the taller boy's half-stern and half-amused face, "Daydreaming, John? How horribly unproductive! I thought you wanted to do this, so let's be serious about it. What are you going to do?" Sherlock demanded, like a schoolteacher making his pupil chant the alphabet. Such a mood-breaker.

"Go to the crime scene," John chanted, "look around as if looking for pursuers of any sort, ask any PC about what happened and take a cab to Baker Street, saying the address loud enough for most people to hear."

"And?"

"Reach 221B Baker Street and enter the house. Go one floor up with as much noise as possible and then to the second floor as softly as possible."

"Good. We have one hour. I'll show you Baker Street. It's a five minute walk from here."

They slipped out of the building and walked leisurely. It suddenly struck John that he had skipped his whole day at school and his parents had no idea about it. He had no idea what his parents might do if they found out that he was now skipping school and instead he was spending it solving crimes with a madman.

They spent the journey in somewhat awkward but companionable silence. Sherlock stopped in front of a cafe with red awning and the words 'Speedy's' written on them with white. He went over to the door bearing the address '221B' and banged the door knocker loudly.

"Why this place?"

"This is my... shall we say, safe house."

"Safe house?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson lives here. Owes me a favour. A year ago, her husband was sentenced to death in Southampton. I was-ahem-able to help her out."

"So... you stopped her husband from being executed?"

Sherlock gave him a radiant smile, as if remembering the details of the very interesting case, "Oh no! I ensured it. I use this location for various - ahem... _rendezvous._"

John frowned slightly, "Aren't you placing the lady in danger?"

He chuckled softly, "Don't ever underestimate Mrs. Hudson." The door swung open, revealing a fiftyish year old woman clad in a baking dress and with a cooking pan clutched in her hand, "Sherlock!" she took the tall lanky teen in her arms and gave him a big squishy hug and then almost gasped at the sight of John's flaming red hair, "Oh Jesus!"

Sherlock looked highly amused, "Mrs. Hudson, this is my friend, John. Shall we?"

If there was one thing John was in the process of learning in his adventures with Sherlock Holmes, it was that he should never underestimate old people. Mrs. Hudson actually had a cooking pan in her hand, as if ready to bash the head of any molesters into the front of her door. It seemed like even she knew about Sherlock's secret occupation.

They climbed up to see two PCs, the scowling sergeant and DI Lestrade lounging on the armchairs. Lestrade dismissed them as soon as they came up.

"I believe you can do the noisy part, John. Now climb the stairs as stealthily as possible. They _mustn't _creak at all!"

After fifteen minutes of practising and listening to Sherlock's admonishments, he approved him, "Good. Now John, we have stationed the DI and the sergeant here. I'll be following you from Oxford Street as well. I'll stay two blocks away from the flat and keep an eye on anyone who follows you into here. You retreat to the second floor and the Detective Inspector catches the man, okay?"

"Okay. Simple enough."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, "Let's go then."

They parted ways as they got themselves separate cabs. John checked his watch. Ten minutes to two. The excitement was bubbling in his stomach, making him weirdly nauseous, "Oxford Street, please."

As he paid and got out, he decided to throw a scanning look around, like Sherlock had instructed him to do and he approached the shop.

"Hey," he grinned at a lady PC, "what's happened here?"

"Guy got shot."

John thanked the influence of the Plastics which was making him an-above average actor. His eyebrows shot up in shock and his mouth fell open, "Really? Who?"

"Old man by the name of Montgomery."

John tried his best not to overdo his part, but he couldn't control some of the theatrical hand gestures, "Oh God! Mr. Montgomery?!"

"You know him?"

He staggered to his feet, like Sherlock had shown him, "I-er... was supposed to meet him today," he said loudly enough for anyone on the other side of the street to hear, "How did this happen?" He started to freak out, so that she was forced to only note down his number and his name, "Go home, kid. Don't lose it. We'll call you if we need something."

John staggered back to main road, looking very pale and ashen, called the nearest cab and almost shouted, "221B Baker Street!"

"Whoa, chill mate! Don't have to shout there!" the good-natured cabbie looked a little amused, "You look a little peaky."

"Sorry," he plopped down into the backseat, "it's just, erm... nerves."

After five minutes the taxi came to a halt in front of the destination address. As soon as John was about to get out, another man pushed him inside the cab. He got in and both the men leered at him. John tried to open the doors, but they had been locked by the cabbie.

Sherlock had expected someone to follow John. He had not expected that same person to drive John to his safe house.

"Sh-lock... " was all John could utter before he found his vision plunging into darkness as sharp pain broke out on the side of his neck.

* * *

**For those who might have already guessed, the heist is an inspiration from 'The Italian Job' (2003) and 'The Antwerp CIty Diamond Center Heist' (2003).**

**Thanks for reading. Love ya all! xxx**


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